CAETERA DESUNT: The Rest is Wanting
by Morgan5318
Summary: There's a serial killer in Shreveport. Five women are dead, and they all have one thing in common. The Sheriff of Area 5 wants it stopped...now! Please R&R. Slightly AU. OC/OC & Some E/S. **COMPLETE**
1. What Child is This?

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 1****: ****What Child is This?**

"_Why lies He in such mean estate, where ox and ass are feeding? Good Christians fear: for sinners here the silent Word is pleading."—William Chatterton Dix/lyrics, Richard Jones/music _

Chase Brandon's blue eyes watched the girl walk away from the bus stop across the street from _Fangtasia_, knowing she would turn into the alley which ran behind the bar. He'd seen her do the same thing every night since he began handling security (read that: a bouncer) for Northman's club. It made sense to hire well-trained people since the vampire club was a target-rich environment for all the would-be saviors out to rid the world of the parasitic plague. That, coupled with the threat of lawsuits by patrons caught in the crossfire, made the Viking adhere to the theory of "better safe than sorry."

Thus why Chase stood just inside the glass front doors of Shreveport's "Bar With A Bite," watching the girl for the tenth night in a row. The sun was already down, but the club wouldn't open for another three hours. Outside, the winter night grew colder. Forecasters predicted temperatures in the low 30s, but what was cold to a nearly 500-year old vampire? Brandon stepped outside, the self-locking door closing behind him with a solid click.

Brandon saw her turn the corner, so he headed around the building to the employee parking lot. The alley was dark beyond streetlights illuminating the immediate proximity of the bar; certainly too dimly lit for a young woman to safely walk alone, but there she was. She left behind the relative safety of more populated Southern Ave., taking the dubious shortcut with no apparent concern.

Chase figured she was either entirely too trusting, or just plain stupid. Either was dangerous in a large city. Didn't she realize there were worse predators prowling the streets than vampires? Ones of her own kind who preyed on the unwary. She'd make a perfect target: head down, shoulders slumped, steps slow and weary as she passed beyond the first street lamp. Hell, she didn't even see _him_ watching her from behind the bar's black van. Not once did she even look around, apparently trusting some divine being to watch her back. It was one thing for a vampire, were or any of a dozen other supernatural beings to tread such a dangerous path, but a human woman? Pure insanity.

_They do say angels watch over children and fools._

Night made her a pallid ghost most humans would ignore, but Chase wasn't human. He moved from behind the van to an empty space next to the dumpster. Her own kind would call her average because she wasn't beautiful. Men wouldn't give her a second glance; women would never see her as a threat. Neither tall nor short, thin nor stout, to them she was ordinary. The alley wasn't well lighted, but Brandon could see beyond human ken. A sweet face, a dreamy expression shamed the gray, gritty alley. Wisps of pale, blonde hair escaped from beneath an old woolen hat. Slender hands emerged from the sleeves of a worn coat. Large, dark eyes never lifted from the filthy concrete as Chase watched her. Humans would never notice her grace the way he did.

She was the kind predators loved, and Brandon knew it was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of her trusting nature. At best, she'd lose her purse. At worst?—rape, torture, death. Police would find her mangled, nude body dumped in a vacant lot or in a ditch. There'd be an out-cry, a demand for the city to clean up the slums. The pious would blame vampires. The media would sensationalize her fate, calling it a tragedy. Some politico would use her death as a campaign platform from which to springboard an ambitious career, but she'd be just as dead.

Then there was the _other_ kind of predator. Equally as dangerous to an innocent girl, though they wielded no weapon. That type would smile, give her hope. She'd believe the lies, believe in happily ever after. They'd break her heart, and leave her bitter and despairing. Chase even knew the kind of man who'd do such a thing: handsome, reckless, dangerous, dark. A man who swept women like her off their feet and into a bed of empty promises. Afterwards? He'd leave with no regrets, walking away uncaring what he left behind. It would be—

—_someone like me._

The thought came unbidden, but Chase knew it was true. He'd found her type on the streets of London, Paris and Moscow. Women who fell before him like wheat before a scythe. Hundreds, maybe thousands over five centuries. It didn't matter the era, the city or the culture, there were always downtrodden women desperate for a modicum of happiness. Some he left as he'd found them, no better and no worse off. Others he raised up, educating them to be a fit companion for someone of his lineage because it amused him. Untold numbers of them he left dead in alleyways, catacombs and slums throughout Europe. He loved a few, but shared the dark gift with only one.

_Helene—how I miss you._

This girl bore a faint physical resemblance to Helene, but nothing more. Helene was no timid mouse; she showed spirit from the first time he saw her to the last moment of her un-life. She would never allow anyone to see her as meek, weak, or—

—_vulnerable._

Helene had been many things, but a victim?—never! Everything about _this_ woman spoke volumes. A lackluster life, probably a dead-end job. Wearing such dowdy clothing and worn shoes, she might be a waitress or a cashier at Wal*Mart. At a stretch, a student. It wasn't hard for Brandon to picture her living in one of the colorless places near _Fangtasia._

Once a decent residential neighborhood, the Cedar Grove area fell on hard times in the 80s. It was now the rundown, faded shadow of the lower middle class South. A former apartment building now housed prostitutes, gang members and drug dealers. Condemned building were havens for crack-heads, addicts and vagrants. Once nice homes showed the passage of time in peeling paint and sagging steps. Some had "For Sale" or "Condemned" signs nailed to the front porch, abandoned when they got too uninhabitable.

In the 20's, it was known for brothels, honky-tonks and violence. Progress swept through the area, leaving in its wake even worse. Seedy thrift stores, triple-X theaters, dirty streets and vacant lots languished in a drug-induced stupor. Other than _Fangtasia_, much of the area was industrialized. Train tracks bordered one side, the interstate another. The entire area was sorely in need of a face-lift.

_It'll never change as long as it suits Northman as it is._

Chase considered this as he went to back entrance of the employee parking lot. He watched the woman pass beyond a pale aura of light from a lamp attached to the side of a brick building. He should go back inside. Northman would have grounds to fire him, but it wasn't like he needed the money. Besides, it was more a case of the Viking wanting Brandon in _Fangtasia_ because his dark, brooding looks attracted women (and some men). Always dressed impeccably in black, he cut quite a swath through the bar, leaving more than one person lusting after him.

There were other perks to working there, not the least of which was being in the political hub of Area Five. Even if he refused to hold a position of power, or one of the Viking's favorites. Chase might run the occasional errand, or do Northman a favor, but he was by no means Eric's lackey. He helped keep the peace, escorted patrons safely to their vehicles, flashed fangs upon request, and looked powerful. He was fine as long as he didn't infringe on Eric's limelight. So, Brandon minded his own business, kept his hands off Northman's pet telepath, and didn't waste time on the fangbangers.

_What's that they say? It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it._

A check of his watch; it was early and he was by no means the only person at the bar. Others could handle things without him. The girl piqued his interest, and Chase wanted to know more. For the first time since the Great Reveal, his senses felt aroused. Not with lust, but with something else. Something primal. Nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of her scent—soap, talcum powder, lavender. Hunting skills honed over centuries made his fangs drop, cutting the inside of his lip. He tasted his own blood. Preternatural eyes pierced the darkness, watching her walkl leisurely down the alley as if no danger lurked in the shadows.

So easy to take them in the old days. He simply followed, glamoured them, bent their will to his. He satisfied his lust, drank his fill and left. Couldn't do that now. Vampires were 'out of the coffin' as the media so loved to say, and the law was very precise when it came to vampires feeding from humans. Besides, willing donors were literally coming out of the woodwork. Every night, they threw themselves at Chase, begging to be bitten by a real Creature of the Night.

_Why hunt when the prey comes to you?_

All Chase need do was snap his fingers and any number of fangbangers would stampede over themselves to serve him. No thrill of the hunt unless he hired a prostitute to resist his advances. (There was a nationwide escort service which specialized in that particular fetish.) It was all quite amusing; at first a novelty to be out in the open after hundreds of years concealing his true nature. Other vampires still got off on the "Vampire Lord" shtick, but Chase was bored. Most of the time, he missed Before.

Brandon cast a long shadow on the asphalt as he leaned against the concrete fence behind the bar. She was totally oblivious of his scrutiny: head down, shoulders hunched inside her coat. A few cars pulled into the lot as other employees arrived, but no one paid him any mind as he marveled at the girl's naivete. Chase stared at her back, wondering if she might somehow know Northman kept a tight control over what he considered his personal territory, thus her lack of concern. Gangs not already on Eric's leash steered clear of _Fangtasia_ because Northman made complications disappear. Nor was he fond of the police interfering in his business, even if Shreveport's finest had vampire cops on the force.

_The less humans know of vampire business, the easier they'll sleep._

Personally, Chase thought it stupid to have vampire police. It sounded logical, until one realized all the vampires in Area Five owed their allegiance to the King, and to Eric as His Majesty's representative. Apparently, humans hadn't quite put _all_ the pieces together. Chase dreaded the day they came to fully understand the mad, mad world in which they lived.

After five centuries, Chase had stopped noticing the insanity. Humanity rarely surprised him. He'd seen war, peace, feast and famine. Human nature remained a constant: an excuse for the horrific deeds of madmen like Stalin and Hitler. Christians condemned his kind as killers, but vampires were rank amateurs when it came mass murder. Hard to tell who is and isn't monstrous, and at this point Brandon saw humans as one of two things: useful or food.

_Debating that issue is as futile as milking a bull._

Before Chase realized, his curiosity got the best of him. He was a blur in the darkness. Let the rest of security handle things. The bar regulars might note he was missing, but plenty of other vampires would be glad to take advantage of their eager veins. Eric could threaten to fire him, but Brandon was confident in the Viking's greed. Chase was good at his job, and in the grand scheme of all things vampire, Northman could care less about the safety of humans. Unless they served him, or spent money in his bar, they were expendable.

A step past the fence and Chase leapt effortlessly to the second story roof of a building next to the bar. Any noise he made was lost in the sound of traffic on Southern Ave. Cars sped by, eager for home and hearth. Brandon followed the girl, leaping from rooftop to fire escape to window ledge. The gaudy neon of _Fangtasia_ quickly faded as she covered four blocks, then turned east into a seedier part of the area. Few streetlights survived here, and not many shabby houses showed signs of life. Dogs barked as she passed rusty chain-link fences and dirt yards. Trees struggled for life here, straggly limbs bare of leaf.

On one side of the street sat a row of frame houses due for demolition. Brandon kept to the shadows. Senses were vigilant; he knew before stepping where his foot would land. Nostrils drank in the scent of night: acrid car exhaust, dying vegetation, stagnant water, smoke from chimneys. No telltale cloud of air betrayed breathing; his lungs had long ago shriveled to husks in a body which no longer needed oxygen. Nor did the near pitch darkness prove an obstacle; his eyes pierced the night better than any cat. Dogs cowered as he passed, aggressive barking faded into submissive whimpers. Vermin scattered from his path, hiding to escape notice.

_The perfect hunter following the perfect prey._

Bare bulbs lit decrepit porches, casting weak light toward a sidewalk they never reached. Time was, those porches would be white-washed, decorated with pots of colorful flowers sitting on the railing. White-haired black women would sit on those porches watching pigtailed children playing. Black men would lounge in the shade, exchanging results of the "hoss races" at Bossier Raceway with their friends. The sipped Iced tea and lemonade—house wines of the South. Sadly, those days were over, and few dared sit outside, afraid of what hid in the dark.

She was a block ahead, halted in front of a lopsided mailbox, slipping whatever she held inside. The screech of rusty hinges echoed across the stillness. Then, she continued down the empty street. Few cars drove along these streets after dark; even police warned people not to stop at red lights here. Danger lurked in every shadow, and beneath the I-49 overpass ahead, but she seemed unaware. She made her way along the deserted sidewalk, his supernatural hearing picking up her soft humming. _Joy to the World._

_Surprisingly uplifting for such dismal surroundings._

Light flickered in the darkness underneath the highway bridge; a fire burned in the obligatory 50-gallon drum. A half-dozen men stood around it, passing paper-bag covered bottles between them. Hands alternately grasped the bags, then emptied and stretched over the flames for warmth. Chase wasn't unaware of the cold, just unaffected. The human's breath fog mingled with smoke from the fire. Bathed in red and orange, their faces looked demonic. Brandon heard one break off his ribald story, peering toward the girl as she came toward them. Drinking stopped, and one man stepped forward.

"Thatchu, Miz Ward?" The old man's voice was raspy, and he coughed heavily. "Whatchu doin' out, mam? You gonna catch yer death." A couple of others nodded, murmuring agreement.

"Yes...?" She stopped, turning toward them. "Roscoe?" There was a brief pause, then, "That's a bad cough. You better go to the clinic tomorrow." Chase saw her brows knit in concern. "It's too cold to be sleeping out tonight. You get yourselves over to St. Vincent Mission," she told them. "Doors're open till midnight."

There was a pleasant timber to her voice, a gentility Chase hadn't heard in a while. He hid behind a pile of debris, listening to the brief exchange. It was very dark under the bridge; not even light from lamps on the highway above penetrated more than a few inches into the shadows. She stood across from the men, only the flickering flames providing light.

"Yes'm, Miz Ward." The one she called Roscoe passed the bottle to another man, gathering up an old military duffle. "Then I best be headin' there." All but two of the bums followed his example, gathering their meager possessions. "God bless, mam!"

Their voices echoed in the man-made tunnel, and they trudged off, coming within a foot or two from where Brandon crouched. Vampire senses as keen as they were, he smelled the stench of unwashed bodies and stale wine as they passed. Conversation over, she continued, ignoring the other two who remained at the fire-filled drum.

It wasn't difficult for Brandon to slip past the duo unnoticed, and he dismissed them from his mind. He had to move quickly lest he lose her, ducking from one to the other of the massive, round concrete pilings. At least he now had a surname. That would make it easier to find more information.

By the time Chase reached the last column, she had stopped in front of a wrought iron gate not far beyond the overpass. Brandon took advantage of the shadows to cross the street, hoping for a better look at the place. Rusty hinges protested loudly as she pushed the gate open. Chase watched from beside an overgrown shrub, peering at a two-and-a-half story house which must have once been a lovely Victorian home.

Sadly, neglect and exposure to harsh elements had taken a toll, and the house was now a mere shadow of its former glory. The wrought iron fence was missing more than a few bars, and the gate groaned as she closed it. Only one old live oak withstood the passage of time; others were stumps in the yard. The tree stood on one side of the porch, gnarled limbs severed at the fence line to make room for electrical lines. Mistletoe and Spanish moss choked the branches; the ancient sentinel would likely soon join its brethren. Grass and weeds were brown from the cold. A broken birdbath lay half in/half out of an empty cement pool. Despite disrepair, the house bore testament to a more genteel era, towering over its single story neighbors.

Chase figured much of the adjacent land had probably once belonged to the estate; now it sat on a tiny patch of ground, withered ivy nearly covering the front yard. He heard the girl's footsteps echo as she climbed the stone steps, crossing what must have been an elegant veranda. Intricate gingerbread trim clung stubbornly to the eaves, still lending a timeless grace to the architecture. The old lady might need new paint and shutters, but she was a trooper. Like many a Southern matron, she wouldn't give up without a fight, and God help the carpetbagger who came calling.

Brandon smirked, remembering many an evening spent in a home like this one, come calling a gentle woman whose family still kept Southern traditions of hospitality, dignity and pride even after The Late Unpleasantness.

_Such foolishness. So many still fight for what was always a lost cause._

But, 500-years ago he'd also been eager to prove himself in war and politics. He fought at the behest of his friend Henry Tudor, ever loyal to the king. He lived a life of luxury until a warm spring night when he met a comely lass while on his way home after carousing with friends. Randy and impetuous, Brandon followed the girl's come hither, having his way with her, and she with he, until the first cock crowed. He then passed out in that dank, damp root cellar, and woke in darkness. There was a pain in his throat, and a thirst no amount of water could quench. Stumbling from the cellar, he was greeted by full night and the winsome lass suckling a milkmaid's breast. Her eyes locked to his from above the pale flesh, and with sudden, terrifying clarity, he knew what it was he craved. Together, they drained the girl—

A sudden burst of childish giggling from inside shattered the memory. The porch was empty, but lights of a Christmas tree were framed in a front window. A silent blur, he was at the glass in less than a heartbeat, one shadow amongst many. Eyes peered through the evergreen to the room beyond. As shabby as the exterior, a worn, Oriental rug covered the parlor floor. Across from the tree, a fireplace flickered brightly. Right angle to that, a sagging sofa. Other furnishings seemed an eclectic mix probably acquired from a thrift store.

From within, Chase heard the dulcet sound of a lute. Leaning slightly to one side, he caught sight of the girl. Seated on a faded wing-back chair, three children sat at her feet. In her hands, an instrument familiar to anyone born in his century. Each note floated on the cold night air: rising, falling, soaring, plummeting. Gone was her old coat and hat, revealing a neat black sweater and a gray plaid skirt. Pale blonde hair fell below her shoulders, and long-fingered hands plucked the strings like a virtuoso. Not a single error nor missed note. The children joined her, singing as she played, her own voice lost in their enthusiasm.

Behind her, a middle-aged black woman stood like a guardian angel. Lighted candles sat on the mantle, reflected in an old mirror. Happiness radiated from each child's face—two white, one black—as they merrily sang _Jingle Bells_, then _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_. When the final chorus of "you better watch out" faded, the black woman whispered something to the girl, who smiled and nodded.

A moment passed while the older woman silenced the children. Then Chase heard her singing. Clear as a bell, her voice wrapped around him, reaching deep to grasp his withered heart. He knew the song, had heard it performed at a feast in honor of Henry's latest love, a winsome witch with black hair and a penchant for green. Memories again flooded Brandon's mind: candlelight and courtiers, a smoke-filled great hall and a Yule log burning. The words she sang were different, but the melody was the same as the first time Henry played it for Anne Boelyn.


	2. Oh Come All Ye Faithful

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 2****: ****Oh, Come All Ye Faithful**

"_Highest, most holy, light of light eternal. Born of a virgin, a mortal he comes, son of the Father."—John F. Wade_

"He's waiting for you."

Chase didn't need to be told _who_ waited for him. It was Eric, naturally, The Boss in more ways than one. No one held higher authority in Area Five than Eric—save for King Felipe de Castro and his trusted Nevada minions. He knew it ruffled Eric's feathers to serve the western monarch, but it was a_ fait accompli_ at this point. No sense giving de Castro an excuse to rain death and destruction on Northman's head as he had on the late Sophie Anne. Brandon couldn't blame Eric for simply going with the flow. In fact, he felt the Sheriff showed remarkable good sense in protecting himself, his business interests and his people by agreeing to work for the King. All the surviving vampires of northern Louisiana were acutely aware of who they had to thank for their continued existence.

And,_ don't forget the Stackhouse girl. Sukie? No, Sookie_.

Eric saved her skin, too, though Chase knew she wasn't very appreciative of the Viking's methods. Stupid human. Didn't she realize how close she'd come to living a new life in Las Vegas? She had Eric to thank for not being chained to de Castro's throne in a metal bikini like the mouthy princess in that space fantasy. The Stackhouse wench should show Northman more respect. She trod a dangerous path, and woe betide her should the Sheriff unkiss their partnership. She'd be on her way to Vegas before the sun set, and fulfilling de Castro's every whim before dawn.

Brandon had been a first-hand witness to the vagaries of royalty from many angles, none of them 100% safe. Men close to King Henry rode high one day, and were cast into the Tower the next. If they were lucky, Henry forgot them, or changed the royal mind. Of course, some were more deserving of losing their heads than others. Cromwell came to mind, the thought of the odious man's fall from grace bringing a smirk to Brandon's lips. That was one execution he relished watching, sharing a pint or ten with others of like mind until they all stumbled home. Only he—

_That was the night everything changed. I'd forgotten, after all those centuries._

Eric wasn't on his usual throne. Chase bypassed a knot of sloe-eyed, would be vampires, ignoring their yearning expressions. They disgusted him. Humans had their place in the world, and it wasn't to join the ranks of the elite. He met few deserving of the gift, and _no one_ who begged for it should have it. They made the worst of all vampires: mewling cowards or blood sucking fiends. The sight of the wannabeswould turn his stomach if he had one.

Chase slipped quickly through the "Employees Only" exit, heading down the hallway. A knock on Eric's door requested admission into the office.

"Enter."

Closing the door, Brandon waited for acknowledgment before stepping forward into Eric's inner sanctum. Northman sat at his desk, staring at an open laptop. Like Chase, the Viking readily embraced technology, learning about computers, telecommunications and modern business practices. He put it all to work improving his personal fortune, as did many other vampires. It paid to know your adversaries, and what one vampire saw as folly, another saw as advantage. Chase and Eric fell into the latter category in the deadly game of vampire chess where one could not afford to be out maneuvered.

Minutes passed. Chase studied the Sheriff, taking in the casual, almost carelessly cut hair, the angular face, the pale skin. Northman was handsome enough, if your bent was for men. He wore expensive clothes and boots, and wore them well, with a penchant for black and blood red. Chase had sampled a few boys in his life, before and after he died, but never found them as satisfying as a wench. Not for the first time, Brandon wondered where Eric had been during Henry's reign. England was at least cognizant of Sweden and Norway, though Brandon couldn't recall a representative at Henry's court. If they were there, they were eclipsed by the Spanish and French, or simply men he hadn't considered worth remembering.

Brandon came back from his reverie at the sound of the laptop closing. He focused on the Viking, only to find Eric staring back at him. Blue eyes took in Chase's all black clothes, running from the top of his head to the tips of his black leather boots. As dark as Eric was fair, he was shorter only by two inches. Chase had towered over many in Henry's court, laughing when they called him a giant. Brandon straightened to his full height, blue eyes meeting blue eyes across the office. Neither man gave an inch over the next few minutes.

Chase might not consider Northman a friend, but he owed him the respect due his position. Therefore, it was he who bowed first, holding it for three beats, then stood upright.

"Pam said you wanted to see me." Neutral voice, perfectly polite and respectful.

A smirk lifted one corner of Northman's mouth. "Nice of you to join us, Brandon." A touch sardonic, but nothing of which to take offense.

"Apologies." A pause. "I had an errand."

"An errand?" Northman's head tilted to the side. "What kind of errand?"

"A _personal_ errand."

Eric steepled his long, slender fingers, elbows resting on the desk. "Purchasing my Christmas present, no doubt." The words were pleasant, but the smile didn't quite reach Eric's eyes.

"No doubt."

Iron will met steely resolve. Neither man could—or would!—afford the other an inch of leeway. Eric, because he was Sheriff and demanded respect. Chase because showing fealty to one he considered base born chafed. Sooner or later, one of them would be forced to relent, and Brandon knew it would be himself. In this place, Northman outranked him. He had no choice but to acquiesce, but he let silence stretch to the breaking point before he acknowledged Eric's right to call him on the carpet for failing to appear as scheduled.

"There was a woman walking in the alley. Alone." A pause. "I followed."

There was a lift of Northman's brows, and a slight stiffening of his posture, but he merely nodded for Chase to continue.

"It's a homeless haven under the I-49 bridge. You might prefer her safe, not a statistic."

Silence, and the lift of one eyebrow from Eric. "That sounds suspiciously like you're thinking for me, Brandon." Dry, droll tone. "Others might take offense at your temerity."

"But you won't." It wasn't a question.

Silence again, then, "Not this time, no." Northman studied him with those icy blue eyes, but Chase never flinched. "You're lucky I consider you an asset." The words were spoken softly, but there was no mistaking the meaning. "I'm not as forgiving as the Boelyn wench."

"You're not as pretty, either." Chase leaned one shoulder against the door frame and smirked. "I cause you less trouble than Compton."

"Which explains why you're still standing in my office, and not in bloody pieces." Less than a heartbeat separated Brandon's words from Eric's response. Both men fell silent, until Eric again spoke. "Don't let it go to your head, Brandon." The Viking toyed with a letter opener on his desk, finally asking, "The woman, she's safe?"

"Perfectly."

"Then get out there and charm my customers."

Dismissed like last century's headlines. Brandon strolled back into the main room, eyes quickly scanning the bar. More patrons had drifted in during his absence. Two skinny teenaged boys in black eyed a leather-clad Pam. Three college girls sat in a booth, each cut from the same mold: blonde hair, blue eyes, full breasts. A bachelorette party in one corner, out for a last fling before the Big Day. Pink cheeks were flushed from more than cold; they'd had plenty of holiday cheer before ever setting foot in _Fangtasia._ Pam alone probably accounted for more than one blush, considering the lascivious smile on her lips.

A throbbing, pulsing techno version of _Adeste Fideles_ poured from the sound system as Brandon settled into his customary position place near the front door. He nodded to his human counterpart, a human weight-lifter whose muscles came in handy. Greg Watson was good at his job, and Chase found it ironic how human troublemakers seemed more afraid of him than himself. Of the two, Brandon was the more deadly foe. Greg was a friendly, until it came time for him to _not_ be friendly. Then he lost the "good ol' boy" charm and was all business. He would've made an excellent soldier or guardsman atTudor court.

For the most part, the night was uneventful. Same old, same old, got the tee-shirt and worn it to rags. Brandon roamed inside and out, he or Greg taking turns escorting patrons to their cars according to their preference. Between rounds, Chase lounged in a booth, drinking True Blood, and growling at wannabes and fangbangers who approached. He posed with Bridezilla and her Bridezilla Maids, ignoring their lurid hints about nibbling. Chase walked one of the gift shop girls to her car, making sure she was buckled up and locked inside before she left the parking lot.

Pam joined him at the front door when he returned, making remarks about him going soft in his old age. Brandon countered by threatening to give tele-marketers her private number, which made Eric's childe scowl. Truth be known, Chase respected the blonde vampire, probably more than he respected Northman. She was a hell of a woman: strong, independent, courageous. Good to have on your side in a fight. Then again, would a Viking choose any other kind of woman? Like Brandon, she hailed from England, but hers was a later era when women had even less control over their lives than in the Tudor era. At least Eric helped her escape the kind of life a woman faced in the repressive society of Victorian England.

It was near closing when Brandon made his final rounds of both parking lots. Employee vehicles still sat behind the bar, but the public parking area had emptied over the past hour. Humidity was thick in the early morning air, a clammy, cold blanket clinging to every surface. Chase felt it on his face as he patrolled lot, hearing the echo of his boot heels on the asphalt. A distant train whistle, and the hiss of traffic on nearby I-49 made the night seem lonely. The parking lot was quiet, so Brandon was surprised by the unexpected sight of four women standing around a car. They seemed agitated over something, and though Chase came closer, he remained in the shadows, listening.

One of the women pulled a cell away phone from her ear. "Voice mail. _Again_." She sounded both frustrated and concerned. "You sure she said she was going straight home, Elise?"

"It's what she said, Kitty. She was too drunk to drive, so that blonde vamp called her a cab."

The conversation continued in this vein, each one leaving at least one message for "Viola," asking her to return the call. Chase remembered them; they were the bridesmaids having such a good time earlier with the blonde bride-to-be. Viola—who apparently wasn't answering her phone.

"—had time to get home, unless she went to David's place?"

"She'd still answer her phone—"

"Not if they're ... um ... busy?" The shortest woman, a perky girl with short brown hair and huge, brown eyes, offered the explanation with embarrassment. "She _was_ drunk."

"True." The fourth woman, a buxom redhead who'd flirted with Chase, spoke up, giving her hair a toss. She'd been quite a temptation, being the type of wench he preferred: curvy, friendly, flirtatious, more than a little tipsy. "Well, it's too damned cold to stand around here while Vi gets laid—unlike the rest of us. Call me tomorrow, El."

They broke up, going their separate ways. Chase watched them drive away in the light, misty rain. Back inside, Pam was urging the final few patrons to finish their drinks, since it was close to last call. When time ran out, Greg checked the restrooms for stragglers. Chase locked the front door while servers and bartenders cashed out. Everyone was careful to make sure receipts balanced. Pam closed down the souvenir shop as Eric finally emerged from his office.

"Slow night. Business might pick up closer to Christmas since all the good little Gothlings will want Mummy and Dadums to buy them vampire gifts." Sarcastic, that Pam. "We need to restock calendars and pewter goblets with dragon stems."

"Leave a note for Jessie on my desk." Northman seemed distracted. "She can make the order." He adjusted his leather jacket. "I won't be here tomorrow night."

Everyone's expression remained neutral, though Chase was fairly certain they were all thinking the same thing: Sookie Stackhouse. Before the Nevada take over, Eric tore up I-20 between Shreveport and Bon Temps, but not so much since. No one said a word, but it wasn't hard to decipher their silence. In Brandon's opinion, the Viking needed to either get that girl out of his system, or she needed to come 'round to Eric's way of thinking. Chase turned his back, watching the bartenders wipe down the counter, and didn't look back until Northman walked out the back door.

"That human will be the death of him." No need to guess who spoke; the heavy, German accent betrayed the speaker. "If you ask me, he is a fool to not give her to de Castro as gift for Christmas."

"No one asked you, Helga," Pam said smoothly, voice cool, "and you'd be smart not to repeat that in front of Eric." The German vampire snorted, but held her tongue.

Chase kept his thoughts on the matter to himself. He might agree with Helga, but he wasn't stupid enough to say anything around Pam. What was said in front of the Viking's childe went straight to her sire.

"Well, she don't seem so bad to me," Greg interjected, handing Pam a stack of employee time cards. "If there's nothin' else, ma'am, I'll be heading out." Pam waved her hand in dismissal, and he called, "See y'all t'morrow," on his way out.

Gradually, both human employees and vampires alike left, only head waitress Catriona remaining to finish the weekly schedule. Once it was done, she said her own farewell—leaving Brandon and Pam alone in the bar. He was always the last to leave because it was part of his job to lock up behind everyone else.

At her request, Chase brought out a bottle from Pam's private blood stock she kept in a locked cabinet behind the bar. She smiled, leaning back in the booth, indicating he should bring two glasses. One drink was poured for Pam, a second for himself.

"You seem singularly lacking in what the humans call holiday spirit," Chase remarked, smirking.

Pam sipped from her glass, shrugging. "I never liked the holidays, but that's not the reason. I hate seeing him act like a lovesick puppy." There was displeasure in her every word. "He's a thousand years old, for Chrissake! He should know better than to fall head over for a _human_."

Brandon savored the glass of "Royal Blüd." He didn't want to discuss this, especially with Eric's childe. Bad enough the German mouthed off; no doubt Helga would regret her impulsive words. But, Pam seemed to expect an answer from Brandon, no matter how reluctant he was to speak his mind.

_Damned if I do, damned if I don't._

"It's none of my business," Chase told her, trying to ignore the subject. "I'm not particularly fond of humans, but they have their uses."

Before Pam could reply, there was pounding on the back door. She exchanged a sharp glance with Chase, and they stood in unison. Moments later, they opened the employee entrance to find an hysterical Catriona. The waitress looked a right mess: wide eyes, shaking hands, nearly incomprehensible babbling. Chase had to glamour her before she calmed enough to explain. Once she finished her stammering explanation, Brandon was out the back door, leaving Pam to handle the girl.

It was just as Catriona described: a woman's body in the dumpster, naked save for thigh-high, black stockings and high heels. Bruises on her face and arms. The odor of blood mingled with the stench of garbage. Faintly familiar of face; she'd been in the bar earlier to celebrate her impending nuptials. One glance told Brandon she was dead; a second revealed puncture wounds on her throat, breast and inner thigh.

Apparently, bride-to-be Viola hadn't taken a cab home, after all.


	3. It Came Upon the Midnight Clear

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 3****: ****It Came Upon a Midnight Clear**

"_O ye beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low; who toil along the climbing way, with painful steps and slow..."—Edmund H. Sears/words, Richard S. Willis/music_

"Of _course_ it wasn't a vampire." Pam sounded patiently pissed as she spoke into her cell phone. "And, no, we _didn't_ call the police."

Chase figured Eric must be acting singularly obtuse for his childe to speak thus, but he was more concerned with getting Catriona's story. The waitress calmly sipped whiskey as she recounted how she came to find the body. Brandon listened, making mental notes since he was certain the Viking would want to handle this without involving police.

A typical college student, Catriona's car was a home-away-from-home. She explained with some embarrassment how it accumulated a plethora of empty fast-food and drink containers, crumpled receipts, and empty plastic bags during the week. It was her usual habit to clean the car on Saturday afternoon before work, but she went to a Christmas party instead. Since she had two weeks off for the Holidays, she decided to clean it after work so she could get on the road early.

"I figured no one minded me tossing some trash," she told Chase. "So, I pulled over by the dumpster and started putting trash in an empty Wal*Mart bag. When I lifted the lid, I saw this woman lying there. I thought some one threw away a mannequin." She stopped, pressing her lips together, eyes frightened, but the glamour held. "Only ... it wasn't." Catriona stared at her hands.

"Did you see anyone in the parking lot? Anyone strange?"

"No, sir—just Greg and Sara, but they left by the time I moved my car." She emptied sipped from her glass, then set it down on the table. "There was blood—" A hand fluttered around her throat. "Was it a vam—"

"No." Brandon interrupted, wanting to immediately derail that line of thought. "_Not_ a vampire."

Catriona first looked relieved. Then she frowned. "M-maybe someone wants everyone to _think_ it was one of you?"

Catriona's question caught Chase off guard, but his expression never wavered. "It's possibile, but why don't you let _us_ worry about that? You should rest," Brandon suggested, meeting the girl's eyes. "I'm sure Northman will have questions when he gets here."

The waitress nodded, switching position until her back was against the wall, her legs stretched along the bench-seat. She had already closed her eyes by the time Chase stood up. He went to Pam's booth, sliding smoothly into the seat across from her. She was still on the phone with Northman, so Chase remained silent, expression thoughtful.

The idea of someone wanting to frame a vampire for murder made sense. It also filled him with resentful anger—and a touch of fear. He'd seen witch hunts spring over lesser matters, and watched innocent people meet their end at the hands of panicked peasants. Mob rule was ugly—just ask the French aristocracy or those poor women in Salem. Even in this so-called enlightened age, rebels, fanatics and religious zealots were dangerous adversaries. The Reveal may have allowed vampires to live in the open, but it also made them vulnerable to attack by any number of the lunatic fringe.

_Like the Fellowship of the Sun._

The Fellowship claimed vampires were blasphemous parasites without souls. Abominations before the Lord. They were determined to save humanity from vampires, and they weren't particular how they accomplished their goal. Irrational hatred for his kind made Brandon fairly certain their means included cold-blooded murder—especially if the human sympathized with vampires. Chase knew the Fellowship was after the Stackhouse girl; he heard about violent encounters with the FOTS. They'd taken her prisoner in Dallas, staked her Jackson, and she'd only recently survived their attempt to crucify her in Bon Temps.

No doubt about it, true believers like the Fellowship shared a dangerous fanatical determination amongst them. Chase was wary of the Viking's close association with the Stackhouse girl. With the FOTS after her, the Area Five vampires would all probably be safer if she relocated to Nevada. Let Felipe de Castro face the peril of having such a high profile pet. Better the king than the Sheriff. If she stayed in Louisiana, Brandon was sure she'd eventually get Northman killed.

_And he'll never see it coming until it's too late._

At the moment, however, Chase had other things to consider than the Sheriff's unsuitable love interest. Like a dead woman in a dumpster. According to Catriona, once she found the body she went straight to pounding on the back door. She was sure the parking lot was devoid of life, human or otherwise. She had been outside earlier for a cigarette break with Janine Hunt, but couldn't recall seeing anything or anyone suspicious—other than two bums asking how to find St. Vincent Mission. They left immediately after Janine gave them directions.

Brandon made a thorough search but found no sign of the woman's clothes, purse, or the murder weapon. Which led Chase to the body. He climbed inside the dumpster, trying to ignore the sickening stench while examining the dead woman. Using a penlight, he found three sets of "fang" marks: throat, left breast, and over the femoral artery . Her pallor and blue-tinted lips suggested exsanguination—but that still didn't mean she was attacked by a vampire.

A punctured femoral artery is a death sentence, period. Humans bleed to death in five minutes from a pierced femoral artery, less if the wound is near the groin where it's impossible to place a tourniquet. Vampires know this: that's why they're careful not to bite too deep or drink too fast. However, they're not the _only_ ones who know this. Anyone with rudimentary medical knowledge knows it, and the information is easily found in books, by surfing the Internet or watching _The Learning Channel_.

"Fine. We'll be here." Pam sounded resigned as she snapped her cell-phone shut. The noise pulled Brandon from his reverie and he looked at her. She dropped the phone into her pocket, frowning in frustration. "He'll be here shortly." Pause. "With Sookie."

Chase nodded. It actually made sense to bring the Stackhouse girl; Eric would undoubtedly question Catriona, and the human telepath might come in handy. If the murderer was meant to cast suspicion on vampires, it behooved Sookie Stackhouse to help find the perpetrators. Things would get real ugly real fast if the FOTS really was behind the crime.

Not that Chase thought Catriona was a member of the Fellowship. She started working at _Fangtasia_ right after it opened. She was polite, respectful and got along with nearly all the Shreveport vampires. Of course, Chase _had_ made mistakes about humans before, but the sloe-eyed Hispanic waitress just didn't seem the type to condone murder.

First off, she was a devout Catholic. Second, she had no problem voicing her opinion of people who joined "cults" (her word, not his) like the FOTS, and it wasn't favorable. Third, she'd been terrified and nearly incoherent after finding the body; _no_ human was _that_ good an actor. Lastly, under his glamour, the truth would've come out the moment Chase asked if she was involved. She couldn't lie to him, and her answer was an unequivocal no. Chase believed her, but the Stackhouse woman could literally read Catriona's mind.

Chase watched Pam, who in turn, watched Catriona. After a few minutes, she looked at Brandon, apparently satisfied the waitress was asleep. "Did you find anything?"

"No." Chase met Pam's gaze evenly. "Couldn't smell anything for the garbage. There was no indication of sexual assault, and I didn't notice anything under her nails—but I'm not an expert on forensics."

Pam nodded. "Eric's concerned."

"He should be. This is serious." A pause, then, "Could it be personal? A warning?"

"I don't know. He doesn't tell me everyth—."

Northman and his telepathic pet walked in at that moment. Chase turned to watch them approach. Eric must've flown, since his Corvette was still out back. Carrying the Stackhouse girl on his back wouldn't trouble a vampire that old. She looked half-frozen, shaken and her hair was a wind-blown tangle. Brandon and Pam immediately stood; Chase woke Catriona, who followed suit.

"Tell me." Eric's icy stare riveted on Catriona. The girl visibly shrank at the hard tone. In a fairly steady voice, the waitress related the same story to Eric she had to Pam and Chase, not a single detail missing. The Viking's Nordic blue eyes never left at his employee, demeanor cold and dangerous. "Do you know what I'll do to you if you're lying?" Northman's fangs suddenly dropped into full view.

Catriona looked paler, if possible, shrinking away from Eric and crossing herself.

"Eric—"

Chase's eyes narrowed to slits at the Stackhouse girl's censorious tone. She _really _needed to remember her place.

"Sookie, this is _my_ business. She is _my_ employee." Eric's voice was the epitome of strained patience.

"Then why drag _me_ along?" Chase saw anger flash in her eyes. "I would've preferred to stay hom—"

"Enough." Northman turned his hard eyes on her, and she quieted. After a few seconds, his attention went back to the waitress.

"I k-know, yes." Catriona spoke softly, fearfully. "I'm telling the truth, sir. I'll take a lie de—"

"No need." The Viking looked to Sookie.

A few minutes passed, then, "She's telling the truth." A pause. "Now, take me home, Eric."

Brandon studied the Stackhouse girl, wondering if she knew how she undermined Northman's authority when she flaunted her self-righteous independence in front of his fellow vampires. Other than de Castro, her lover was the ultimate authority in Area Five, and no mere human should order him about as she did. Most vampires would severely punish a servant for such temerity. She was too lucky for her own good.

"You may go," Eric told Catriona, "and say nothing of this to _anyone_, understood? Do not let this ruin your holiday." The Viking gave Chase a meaningful glance. "Escort her to her vehicle."

Chase nodded, walking her to her car. It took only a moment to implant a memory in the Catriona's mind, one which didn't include a dead body. When he returned, Eric and Pam had sat down in the booth. They wore serious expressions, but the Stackhouse girl seemed more angry than worried. Pam seemed cool as a cucumber, but Eric was clearly annoyed when he turned to Chase.

Brandon slid in beside Pam. "She took pleasant memories home with her. I also checked the area. Nothing and no one."

The Sheriff nodded. "You and Pam will dump the body where it won't come back to haunt me."

It seemed a logical solution to Brandon, but the Stackhouse wench looked horrified. "Eric!—you can't do that. You have to call the po—"

"No, I don't." Those words held a finality to them. "This is not your decision."

Chase saw the woman's head come up, chin set in defiance, but Pam derailed further argument. "So, was this aimed at you?" Her eyes sought Northman's. "A personal vendetta? The Weres stirring up trouble? Maybe the Fellowship?"

The Viking was silent. "None of them." Chase spoke with the assurance of someone who'd thought things through. "The police weren't given an anonymous tip."

"How polite of the murderers not to send police out on a wild vampire chase."

Pam's sense of humor appealed to Chase. His lips quirked into a smirk as he watched Eric's lip curl. The Stackhouse girl snorted, pretending a sneeze, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. The cold had put color on her cheeks and she seemed to literally pulse with life. Brandon risked incurring Northman's ire by letting his eyes roam over her, seeing other reasons for Eric's infatuation than her telepathy.

"Funny." The Sheriff's voice was frosty. "See anything out of the ordinary on your little errand of mercy earlier?"

Chase met Northman's eyes squarely. "Nothing, unless you consider abandoned houses and homeless vagrants unusual." He paused, adding, "I saw her friends in the parking lot on my last round. Overheard them say someone called her a cab. They were concerned because she wasn't answering her cell phone."

"Me." Pam smiled lasciviously. "Would've liked to take her home with me. She looked delicious."

"You actually see her get in the cab?"

"No. I was helping Tricia in the gift shop." Pam shrugged. "Didn't know it was my turn to babysit the drunks."

The Stackhouse woman spoke up, supporting Pam."It's like that at Merlotte's, too. You can't watch everyone every minute. They're supposed to be adults."

"Right. Next time I looked outside, she wasn't there."

"Her name's Viola, but there was no ID on the body. No purse, no clothes."

"That's it, then." The Sheriff made ready to leave, simply tying up loose ends. "Pam, you and Brandon dump the body in a suitable spot. She'll be reported missing, and I want her found far enough away from here her death won't be connected with the bar. Police will know she was here before she disappeared, but no one besides us—and Catriona, whom Brandon took care of—can know anything about the body being found on my property."

"There goes another pair of shoes," Pam grumbled. "You still owe me for the last ones, Eric."

Eric shook his head, a corner of his mouth lifting. "Who knew I raised such a fashionista." The Sheriff clucked his tongue, grinning almost wickedly at Pam, then looking at the human beside him. "We'll stay at my place tonight." It wasn't a request.

"I'd prefer to go home."

"We stay where _I_ know we're safe, my lover."

Chase watched the girl reluctantly capitulate. The human looked as good from the neck down as the neck up, but Brandon was smart enough to not show any interest. The Sheriff was exceedingly possessive of his pet telepath. Chase and Pam both stood, bowing to Eric. They turned, heading to the rear exit. By the time Chase brought the bar van around, Eric and his lady were gone.

"You keep watch, I'll stow the body."

Another hour in the cold hadn't improved the stench, though _rigor mortis_ made transfer of the body easier. By the time Pam returned, Viola was wrapped in a black tarpaulin. Chase was careful to check for anything incriminating in the dumpster, but found only a couple of blood-speckled newspapers. These were left, and he closed the rear doors of the van. Pam was behind the wheel, and when Brandon climbed into the passenger seat, she wrinkled her nose but said nothing. Ten minutes later, they were headed south on I-49. The rainfall stopped about fifteen miles outside Shreveport and the night sky cleared. The moon hovered dangerously near the horizon.

Pam chose an exit twenty miles from nowhere. The two-laned road lead into the dark, deserted countryside about an hour south of the city. She found what Chase felt was a good site and they went to work. Poor Viola was rolled down an embankment, landing amongst a collection of refrigerators with no doors, dead furniture and old clothes. A brown-water stream nearby washed over broken tricycles, plastic toys, rocks and half-submerged tree roots. She looked rather pathetic lying there amidst the flotsam of civilization. Half covered by a dislodged pile of leaves, her skin was translucent pearl in the pale moonlight. No telling how long she'd lie there before someone discovered her body.

Back in the van, Chase took the wheel while Pam ruefully tried to clean thick, Louisiana mud off her high-heeled leather boots. Her efforts didn't look promising.

"You know, if this keeps up, I'm going to make him buy me an entire God-damned shoe store."

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES****:**

Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter 1 & 2. Feel free to let me know if you find glaring errors, are confused by anything, or have suggestions on how to improve the story.

Also, I want to draw attention to my incredible Beta, Nox-Alatus. Without her, I'd have never had the courage to post this story. I am her humble servant!


	4. Carol of the Bells

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Part 4****: ****Carol of the Bells**

"Oh how they pound, raising the sound, o'er hill and dale, telling their tale..."—Mykola Dmytrovych Leontovych

The following evening Chase arrived a little after sunset. No question why vampires preferred winter to summer, not when night came so early and lasted so long. (Of course, there was no truth to the rumor a vampire came up with Daylight Savings Time!) He heard Northman's office manager before he saw her. The middle-aged woman was sitting at the bar. Jessie Thomas wasn't a heavy drinker, but every day she had one cocktail—vodka on the rocks. She said it was to relax her for the drive home.

"Evening, Mr. Brandon," she said as he slid onto a bar stool beside her.

"Evening, Jessica. You're looking well." Truth told, the woman reminded him of his mother, and he always treated her kindly in memory of that venerable dame. The Thomas woman exhibited the same gentle eyes, congenial nature and the gentility as Mistress Brandon. Of course, his mother also possessed the patience of Job; she'd needed it to deal with her running a large household. Much as Jessie Thomas needed it to handle her employer.

At any rate, Jessica Thomas informed Chase the Viking was in his office, speaking with two police detectives: one human, one vampire. She only knew it was in reference to a missing person last known to have visited _Fangtasia._

"The _human _one called just after I got here at nine," the older woman told Chase. "I explained Mr. Northman didn't have regular office hours, 'cause he's a vampire, but do you think that stopped him from calling back every hour on the hour?" Jessie shook her head, rolling her eyes. "Any idiot should know a vampire wakes up _after_ dark!"

She sipped her vodka like a lady, adding, "Apparently one needn't wait the obligatory 48-hours to report a missing person _if_ that missing person happens to be engaged to Capt. Owen Petrie's son." She emptied the glass, setting it on the bar. "Here."

Jessie handed Brandon a folded newspaper. He accepted the paper, opening it. Viola's picture was on the front page beneath a "Local Woman Missing" headline. Chase scanned the article after requesting an A-negative True Blood from Garcia, the bartender. "Viola Lynne Adams."

"The _señorita_ is _muy bonita_," Garcia said, delivering the warmed drink. "No wonder her man wants to find her." He grinned at them, then turned to continue readying the bar for opening.

"So, the police are here to find out if we saw the woman or know anything about her." It was a statement, not a question. Chase finished reading, sliding the paper back to Jessie.

"Apparently, though they didn't say much to _me_." She refolded the paper, sliding it into her briefcase. "Her poor mother must be worried sick." Jessie shook her head again, gathering her things. "I'd better be getting home. Edgar's alone since the boy's off skiing in Colorado. He's helpless by himself." A chuckle and she was heading to the exit. "Have a good night, gentlemen."

"Be sure to lock your doors," Garcia reminded her, nodding as he headed to other end of the bar to slice lemons.

With Northman's office manager gone, Garcia busy**,** and Pam nowhere in evidence, the bar was quiet. The usual raucous music wouldn't start until just before the opening time, some hours from then. Chase sipped the synthetic blood; it wasn't nearly as satisfying as the real thing, but it would take the edge off a vampire**'**s hunger. At least it would suffice until an opportunity arose to feed from a live donor. Despite what advertisements claimed, a vampire couldn't subsist on True Blood alone. They needed the whole blood once in a while or they came down with the vampiric equivalent of anemia. They exhibited weakness, lethargy and could even lapse into a state of suspended physical powers and activity, rather like the dormancy of a hibernating animal.

Brandon finished the blood substitute and rose from his stool. "I'll be on rounds if I'm needed," he told Garcia, heading for the employee exit.

A substantial downpour had sprung up since Chase arrived at work, and he paused under the back awning, watching it fall. Not that a little rain would bother him; he wore a waterproof leather trench coat. The rest of him wouldn't matter since he had, after all, grown up in England. Not exactly known for it's sunny weather, his homeland was a country of perpetual mist, rain and damp. If he wasn't used to rain after 500-years, he never would be. Besides, a selection of umbrellas stood in a cylindrical brass holder just to one side of the back door. If he wished, he could use one, but why bother?

Stepping from beneath the awning was like plunging into an icy river. It recalled memories of riding north to put down The Pilgrimage of Grace for Henry. Rain was a constant companion for most of that horrid journey. It made life miserable for everyone, noble and commoner alike. He and other dignitaries sent north to Louth at least had the option of riding inside an enclosed wagon, but Brandon chose to ride, leading his troops and sharing their discomfort. His lieutenants also rode, but his infantry, archers and pikers slogged through deep, muddy tracks left by horsemen and wagons. Few possessed oilskin covers to keep the rain at bay. He at least tried to find them shelter come nightfall—barns, caves, stables, great houses. Unfortunately, the farther north they went, the fewer and farther between shelter became.

There were plenty of other times he'd endured cold and wet, most often during wartime. He was, after all, a soldier sworn to the defense of England's crown. Even after his change, he fought in her defense, though he could ill afford to join an actual military force. He served his country, even if his nightly sojourn into enemy territory left unanswered questions come morning. Speaking several languages had advantages, and the enemy rarely saw him coming. Blood was blood, but better to spill enemy blood. It was easy to avoid discovery in a war zone; strange and unusual events were common, and no one had time to investigate. Brandon survived more wars than he could remember. Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps he was just very good at killing.

Chase circled the employee parking lot, making sure no surprises waited in the dark, dismal night. The dumpster was empty; apparently garbage was picked up early Sunday morning, so Eric was right to insist they move the body before dawn. Brandon never thought to ask about pick up days before, but he'd never take it for granted again. Missed details like that could mean life or death to a vampire. If police were this anxious to find Viola, Brandon imagined they might not stop to listen if they'd found her body in _Fangtasia's_ dumpster. That would just be more ammunition for people like the Fellowship.

He was returning from checking the public parking lot when he saw _her_. She wore the same faded blue coat, her only concession to the rain one of those clear plastic hoods handed out as free advertisements by banks and hair salons. Her head was lowered, probably to avoid getting a face full of rain. She was drenched in a matter of moments after leaving the bus stop. Walking toward the alley, she was taking the same path as the night before. Rain pelted down on her without respite. Chase at least had vampiric speed to aid him.

In a blur of movement, Brandon was at the employee entrance, pausing only long enough to grab one of the huge, black golf umbrellas. Then he was back out in the storm, splashing his way toward the alley. Never for one moment realizing his sudden appearance might startle the girl out of her wits, he made a beeline for her, rainfall masking his footsteps.

"Miss Ward?"

Brandon's voice was a cultured baritone, perfectly polite. The only problem?—it came from directly behind her, and she gave a cry of pure surprise. Thankfully, the sound was muffled by rain and he already had the umbrella open, holding it over her. Respite from the wet seemed to startle her almost as much as his sudden appearance. She blinked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. She stood in silence, the flight or fight instinct obviously warring within her.

After several moments of indecision, she finally reached for the umbrella handle. Chase saw her hand shake.

"Th-thank you."

He didn't know whether her stammer was from cold or fear. Probably both, all things considered. "You're welcome." He bowed from the waist, turning on his heel. Better to leave her than risk further frightening her.

"Wait." He halted, icy fingers of rain finding their way inside his coat. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

Brandon could hardly tell her he followed her home and heard her talking to the homeless men. That put him in the same category as a stalker, and he didn't think that knowledge would comfort her. Chase turned, eyes meeting hers, willing her to be calm.

"You've nothing to fear. I'm a friend." His expression exuded trust. "If you'll excuse me—?"

"But how do I return this?" she asked, glancing up at the umbrella.

"You don't."

Chase hurried away like a skittish colt, leaving her alone in the alley. Much as he'd rather sped away in the blink of an eye, he forced himself to dash into the parking lot as any human would to escape the rain. He felt a right churl, but what else could he do? He doubted she'd appreciate knowing he was a vampire, not after seeing her reaction to his sudden appearance. Better to leave her thinking him a Good Samaritan than truly scare the wits out of her. At least she kept the umbrella and would be protected from the rain—if not from predators.

"But, what's your name?"

Chase heard her call as he re-entered the parking lot. Hopefully she wasn't following, and he could get inside _Fangtasia _before she realized where he went. The second he was out of her line of sight, Brandon practically flew to the rear entrance, slipping inside the bar a heartbeat later. Though muffled in the storeroom, it was impossible for Chase to hear anything above the sound emanating from the main bar. Apparently, someone decided to start the music a couple of hours early. He took it on faith he managed to escape her notice. She might look for him, but there'd be no trail to follow. Even if she figured he went into the bar, he doubted she was brave enough to actually enter.

Chase sluiced water off his coat with a bar towel, removing it to let it dry on a peg by the employee bathroom. He dried his head the best he could, scrubbing at his dark hair. Long enough to be stylish, it brushed the back of his neck; he wore it in a queue, something he'd adopted from the Regency. He was still damp, but that was the least of his concerns. As he passed Northman's office, the door opened and Janine stepped out to nearly collide with him. Brandon's hand instantly went to steady the girl, fingers encircling her arm. She gasped, startled by his close proximity.

She stammered out an apology, which Chase accepted as he released his grasp on her. "They just sent me to find you." Janine looked relieved to see him. "Mr. Northman and the cops want you." She took a breath, leaning closer to whisper, "They're talking to everyone about a missing woman last seen in here last night!" There was an edge of excited fear in her aura.

Brandon pretended to be impressed, then said, "I saw that in the Times. She was part of that bachelorette party, wasn't she?"

Janine nodded, enthralled by this brush with fame. "Yes! They were in my section. I waited on them." She looked around nervously, adding, "Pam called her a cab, but—"

"I should probably get in there," Brandon interrupted, patting the waitress on her shoulder, "and _you_ should get back to work."

With a final nod, Janine scurried down the corridor. Sound levels rose then fell as she slipped out of the "Employees Only" door. He knocked at Northman's door, hearing the obligatory "come in" a moment later.

Stepping into the office, Brandon was instantly aware of a thick aura of tension between the Viking and the two men sitting opposite him. They turned as one when Chase entered, eyes riveted on him. Nondescript, both of them, even the vampire. The human resembled a drab beach ball. Everything about him was round: face, body, eyes. Perhaps in his forties, he was fighting a losing battle with baldness, affecting the typical "comb-over" of thinning hair. His suit was tan, his shirt wrinkled, his tie a vague pattern of dark and light brown with touches of red. He had pudgy hands with stubby fingers and held a small pad and pen. He was sweating profusely, probably terrified to be in a vampire's lair. Chase could literally smell his fear.

The vampire was diametrically opposite his human counterpart. Tall, thin and dark, he had the swarthy appearance of a Spaniard with Moorish antecedents. Chase had seen him before; a new arrival since the Nevada take over. Where the human was round, he was all angles: sharp features, square face, chiseled chin. Wavy black hair, slick with oil. Narrow dark eyes and a pencil-thin moustache gave him the appearance of a Hollywood villain. His suit was dark blue, his shirt white, the tie a striped red, blue and gray.

Though he possessed better fashion sense, Chase still took an instant dislike to him. The vampire bore an all too close resemblance to Señor Eustace Chapuys, the Imperial Spanish Ambassador to Henry's court and a staunch advocate for Queen Catherine of Aragon, the Spanish princess Henry wanted to divorce so he could marry the Boleyn witch. The only thing Brandon had in common with Chapuys was a thorough and complete loathing of the Boleyns; they were crafty and sly, concerned only with their own advancement. The father eagerly prostituted his daughters to the highest bidders; Henry first had the older, then the younger, thus beating out the king of France by bedding both sisters. The brother was easy on the eyes, but just as cunning and conniving as the rest of his greedy family. It was almost as good watching their fall as it was Cromwell's.

Compared to the detectives, Northman was the epitome of style and composure. A study in black, the Sheriff sat behind his desk, hands clasped in front of himself. Dressed in monochromatic black, he wore a poet shirt. A gold Rolex watch on one wrist, a gold Thor's hammer pendant hanging from a woven gold chain. Every inch of the vampire entrepreneur screamed power and good taste. Maybe too much power for one man, but Brandon gave the devil his due—Northman was in complete control of this situation. Both cops knew it, and it really, _really _rankled the vampire detective.

"You wanted to see me?" Chase spoke in an even tone of voice, betraying nothing more than mild interest. He gave the Sheriff a respectful bow, barely acknowledging the policemen.

"Not me, precisely." Eric's reply was wry, almost amused. "These men want to ask you some questions about a patron who disappeared last night." Northman's gesture was languid, as if the entire procedure bored him—which it probably did. "Mr. Chase Brandon, Detectives John Andrews and Julio Menéndez, Shreveport P.D." Introductions complete, the Viking rose. "Feel free to use my office. If you'll excuse me?—I'm expected elsewhere."

Without further comment, Northman left, office door closing firmly behind him. Chase had no idea where he was headed: close as the bar, or as far away as Bon Temps. Considering he took the Stackhouse girl to his place close to dawn, likely she was still in Shreveport. That probably meant she wanted to go home—unless she'd finally recognized her fortune lay with Northman, and accepted his protection.

That was of much lesser import compared to answering questions for the police. Brandon focused on the two detectives, scrutinizing them closely. Andrews was ostensibly the lead, but he was no match for Menéndez. The Spaniard wasn't old enough to have been part of the Inquisition, but he handled the interview with all the skill of a master interrogator. Unlike Andrews, he was no fool, nor was he afraid. Andrews might have seniority, but he was relegated to taking notes. The questions were cleverly presented, designed to glean the most information from the fewest words. A few trickier ones were obviously meant to lead a suspect into revealing more than they wished.

Clever, yes, but not as experienced as Brandon. Chase was used to men who satisfied King Henry's exacting standards; he watched highly skilled men extract confessions—not exactly the truth, mind—from people accused of treason in the highest degree. Those who entered the Tower through Traitor's gate rarely left alive. A stay in those dungeons broke all but the strongest of will. Resisting was useless under the tender mercies of those who inflicted exquisite pain meant to wring confessions by any means. Innocence made no difference to Henry; he wanted results. Men like poor Mark Smeaton underwent hours of torture so his confession would damn Anne Boleyn and her brother. Was she innocent of the charges of adultery and incest? Probably. Certainly the young musician was, but no one is safe when a king makes up his mind to be rid of an unwanted wife.

"So, you've no idea if Ms. Adams actually left in the cab, and you said you overheard her friends say they couldn't reach her. That was—?"

"Approximately an hour after the cab was called, near closing." Brandon was officially bored. "Officer—"

"Detective."

"—I told you everything I know." Brandon fixed Menéndez with a steely stare, refusing to grant him the respect he so desperately wanted. "Ms. Adams came in with four friends. I posed with them, then overheard them say they couldn't contact her." Chase shifted from his lean against the office door jamb. "This interview is over."

The human cop picked up on his irritation. "I think we have everything, Mr. Brandon. Thank you. Sir."

The vampire wasn't happy, but Brandon didn't care. When he hesitated to leave, Chase spoke again. "I remind you this is Mr. Northman's livelihood, and I doubt he'd appreciate having his employees prevented from performing their duties during operating hours." Chase turned to the door, opening it. "Good evening."

Andrews hurried to the door, tucking the notebook in his pocket as he moved. "No, of course not." The human was all too glad to escape what he obviously felt was a dangerous vampire den. "Thank you for your cooperation. Sorry for any inconvenience, sir."

"Please leave through the employee exit."

"But, we parked—" Andrews shut up, and Chase directed them to the rear entrance. They'd be forced to hoof it through the rain, and Brandon knew that rankled Menéndez. That made Brandon smirk. Once the police left, he headed out front. The bar was packed, once again proving even bad publicity is good publicity. Northman nodded to him from his throne where he held court over a throng of black-clad Goths, pale-faced vampire wannabes and people curious enough to see for themselves what the deal was. The Stackhouse girl sat at a table with Pam.

Chase headed to the front, pausing beside Greg. He watched the two drenched policemen drive away and saw the rain was abating. Saying he was going to do his rounds, he stepped outside. A few stars twinkled through breaks in the clouds, winking like crystal eyes in the black velvet sky. Chase circled the building, checked both parking lots, and heard the chime of distant church bells signaling the hour. He paused, remembering the man with whom he once debated religious doctrines, the man to whom he swore an oath fealty.

Brandon and all the other vampires in Louisiana had already been called upon to swear such an oath to a vampire king who lived in far away Las Vegas. Whatever Chase thought of this new king, he kept wisely to himself, but couldn't help wondering if a carol of bells would signify joy or sorrow for de Castro.

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES: **Thanks again to everyone who reviewed and/or marked the story for notice. I'll try to keep updating it regularly---at least till I run out of already written chapters. :)

To murgatroid-98: I answered this in PM. Let's just say New Years also means new beginnings for some people.

To charhamblin -- Also answered in PM. I admit I was deliberately ambiguous about when this story took place other than Christmas time. I didn't want to have too many spoilers for the books. I will say Eric & Sookie are bonded; that comes out in later chapters.


	5. Twas in the Moon of Wintertime

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 5****: '****Twas in the Moon of Wintertime**

"'_Twas in the moon of wintertime, when all the birds had fled that mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead. Before their light the stars grew dim, and wondering hunters heard the hymn."—Jean de Brébeuf_

Charles Brandon, the 1st Duke of Suffolk, had never been a stupid man. A tad foolish in his youth, perhaps, but even then he was more than a match for many older, better educated men. His father, Sir William Brandon, was standard-bearer for Henry VII and slain by Richard III in person on Bosworth Field. Before his death, William spoke often and proudly of his second born son, believing him smartest of all five siblings. Raised in the court of Henry VII, Charles was of an age with the king's younger son, and described as comely of stature, high of courage and pleasant of disposition. Not to mention extremely clever, besting even the Prince at many things.

_But not all. It's never wise to best the man who holds your fortune in his hand._

And so, it was that as friend of the Prince, Charles became a favorite of the King. He first became a Master of Horse, then scaled the ladder to Lord President of the King's Council, Lord Steward for Anne Boleyn's coronation, and lastly, Justice in Eyre. According to historians, he married four wives, even becoming King Henry's brother-in-law when he wed Mary Tudor, sister of the king and widowed Queen of France. His enemies called him ambitious and tried their best to thwart him. He rose in power and prestige despite their efforts. 'Though hated by some, Brandon was adored by the ladies at court, and loved by the king. He had everything a man could want and more.

_But it all ended on a spring night because I couldn't keep from dipping my wick._

Seated at his desk, Chase waited for his man of business, letting thoughts roam where they might. He hadn't meant to travel this path of memory, and laid blame squarely on an invention of the damned: television. He'd meant to watch something mindless until his attorney arrived. Brandon was one of Murrell, Murrell & Brown's most important clients. No job was too big, too small or too complicated for them, and they were paid handsomely for the privilege of handling Chase's legal matters.

Douglas Murrell III was to arrive at nine, which left Chase with time to kill. He was flipping through TiVo when he saw something guaranteed to pique his interest. _The Tudors_. He never noticed the series before, and curiosity overcame him. He selected it, and before long was caught up in this new version of history he'd lived. The actors were passing good, the nudity appealing, the assumed authenticity amusing. He laughed at the absurdity of Anne Boleyn wearing a sheer, sleeveless gown to revealing her virtues. In truth, the witch was far too clever to be that free with her charms. She knew how to play on Henry's lusts. He also knew what the _real_ King Henry would have done to whomever suggested he wear such paltry clothes, or take part in pantomimes wearing a sleeveless doublet! Chase admitted the actor portraying himself was passably good looking, and the costuming worn by that actor was fairly accurate. They even had some of his exploits correct.

It was the settings which touched his withered heart with melancholy.

Filmed in some of the surviving Tudor houses in England, Chase had actually once stood in those self-same rooms. He'd seen the woodwork, touched the stone walls. Be it castle or stately home, he knew a few of them first hand. The grounds had changed, and some restoration was incorrect, but it made him nostalgic. There were times when he missed those days, yearning for things so long denied: food, wine, sunlight. He would've enjoyed living to a ripe old age, seeing his sons and daughters reach their majority. It was true _a_ Charles Brandon did reach one and sixty, but he wasn't the _real_ Charles Brandon. That Charles Brandon was son of his father's brother, born on the wrong side of the familial blanket, but enough like him to masquerade amidst the court.

Of course, it took careful planning, but Charles was clever. Never before was he so in need of his wits than in this new life. It was remarkably easy to feign illness in days of plague and pestilence. Contracting the sweating sickness spelled a death sentence, though some did recover over time. He retired to one of his minor estates, dismissing all but one man servant and sending word he was taken ill. He refused to see even his wife, and begged the king to pray for his soul. Months passed while schooled his half-brother in the manly arts of sword and dance, chess and horsemanship. Of an age with Charles, Edward looked remarkably like him when dressed the same. Learning his new powers coincided with his brother's lessons.

The day came when Charles knew Edward was ready to take his place in Court. Eight months to recover from his illness, and people forget a man's true appearance. So it was with Edward, who became his pock-marked and bearded brother returned after a long period of recovery. Chase remained in England for six months while his doppleganger made merry at court. He invested wisely, making certain he had enough to build another life. Then he left England on a cold, dismal night, bidding farewell to all he knew. Chase joined his sire and together they roamed the continent.

_But always I remember, be it one year or five hundred._

So Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk, died and was buried at Windsor in St. George's Chapel. A century later, Chase returned, pretending to be a distant relation to the Brandon's, and visited his half-brother's tomb in secret. Servants were surprised to find red rose petals scattered over and around the sarcophagus.

Chimes echoed through Brandon's house. He met Murrell in the entry hall a moment later, dismissing his human steward. A true gentleman—if there were such a thing in America—the thirtyish attorney was handsome in a wholesome, football hero kind of way. He chose law only after losing a gridiron scholarship, and settled down with his high school sweetheart to raise the obligatory 2.5 children. He liked hunting, fishing and flying, and knew on which side his bread was buttered. Murrell never let Chase down; he might have other clients, but when Brandon called, he dropped everything.

"Evening, Mr. Brandon."

Brandon's heels clicked on the marble floor as he led the attorney into the office. He turned off the TV, then settled behind his desk. "What do you have for me?" As charming as women found him, Chase was all business when need be.

Murrell set his black Gucci briefcase on the desk, opening it as he sat in a wing-back chair opposite Brandon. A manila envelope was presented. "Pretty much everything you asked for." He passed the envelope to Chase, looking pleased. "Her name's Meredith Ann Ward. Born 31 October 1986, in St. Vincent Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida. Parents were Mary Gail Ward—nee Fairchild—and Steven Robert Ward. Both died in a car accident when she was sixteen.

"She lived with her paternal aunt, Kathryn Ward for two years, then moved to Shreveport in 2005 to attend Centenary College. She's now a first year grad student working on a masters in History. Moved in with her great aunt, Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild, and helped take care of the old lady until Miss Lurleen died last year. Meredith inherited a dilapidated, Victorian house, Lurleen's seat on the Historical Preservation Society Board of Directors, and a modest monthly stipend. She shares the house with Grace Murray, Miss Lurleen's long-time housekeeper." Murrell's recitation ended, and he closed the briefcase.

Brandon looked over the documents presented to him. The info told him very little about the girl herself—her personality, likes, dislikes. "History." He mused on that, then picked up a photo accompanying the papers. The color picture looked to be from a yearbook; probably college, since Meredith looked older than high school age. Hazel-green eyes stared back at him, not brown as he'd surmised. Pale blonde hair with a slight wave fell below her shoulders. Modest gold stud earrings, a matching chain and a Celtic cross. The black background and graduation gown washed her out.

"What about this Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild? Human?"

"Definitely. My wife could probably tell you more about her, since Lily's the current president of the HPS Board of Directors. All I know is as long as there's been a Shreveport, there've been Dillmans and Fairchilds living here. We're talking founding families. From what I understand, Miss Lurleen considered Meredith her only living relative, but someone else filed a motion to contest the old lady's will. I've got my people researching the details."

Looking at Murrell with a degree of interest, Chase fingered the girl's picture as he listened. He saw Murrell check his watch for the second time since his arrival. "Am I keeping you?"

Embarrassed. "No, no. I'm just meeting the folks at Diamond Jack's for dinner and a show. It's Mom's birthday, and she wants to 'gamble like a crazy person,' so she put it." A grin, and a chuckle followed. "But sure, I can get Lily to do that. She's always willing to dig into the 'juicy stuff,' as she calls it." Douglas paused. "Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Chase shook his head. "Nothing—other than completing the background check on that contractor in New Orleans. It sounds like a good investment, and the area could certainly use affordable housing, but I need to know more about _him_ before I commit myself."

"Certainly, Mr. Brandon." Murrell stood. "I'll see myself out." But he paused at the office door, turning back. "Say, if you're not busy, why don't you join us? Mom would _love_ to meet you. She's always threatening to go to _Fangtasia_."

It was a nice offer, but Chase shook his head. "I have a previous engagement."

"Some other time, then." He waved, then left, closing the door behind himself.

Brandon didn't move for several minutes, studying Meredith's picture. She wasn't a raving beauty, but anyone who found her ordinary was a fool. Her face had character, and her eyes were outstanding. The color was intriguing: not quite green, not quite brown, darker flecks of both near the iris. He saw intelligence in those eyes. Thick lashes, and brows barely darker than her hair. No make-up, or she applied it with a light hand. Heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, bowed mouth. The upper lip was ever so slightly larger than the bottom.

_An interesting face. Arresting._

So, the mystery was solved. He had a name, an address and a few pertinent facts. Next question—what was he to do with the knowledge? Chase felt a stirring inside him, something akin to the lusts of his youth. He craved an intangible something that always seemed just beyond his reach: tantalizing, tempting, torturing. Helene satisfied some of the yearning, but always he felt the need for something more, something he couldn't name. Besides, he'd been without Helene since Marie Antoinette's head left her shoulders.

Brandon snarled, remembering the acute anguish at feeling his childe's death. The sheer fury at knowing he'd never again sleep with her at his side. Of its own volition, his fist slammed down atop his desk. The mahogany trembled, but didn't buckle. Rage built inside, blood lust surging through his body. Two centuries later, and he still wanted retribution. Her killers were long since dust, but Chase willed them alive again, so he could put those who escaped him in their graves. No amount of vengeance would bring back his beautiful Helene; she was lost to the ages, ashes long since vanished in the mists of time. The only thing he had of her was memories.

The desk chair toppled as Brandon abruptly stood. He crossed the office to a pair of French doors opening on his terrace. The night seemed suddenly empty and cold, and Chase felt lost. Perhaps he should've accepted Murrell's invitation; it was a lie, that claim of a previous engagement. There was no place he needed to be, no one to meet, no company to share the darkness. He paced the terrace, striding from side to side, once, twice, thrice. He was alone, as he usually preferred, only tonight was different.

Something about the girl. Meredith. Something about Meredith Ward made him not _want_ to be alone. She stirred things inside him, brought out the predator. The wolf who stalked his prey, the panther who prowled the night. Integral parts of him dormant since the Great Reveal surged and roiled inside him, burning in his veins. The hunter took him, and his pacing became slower, more calculated. His hands formed into white knuckled fists, then splayed open, fingers curling like the talons of a hunting cat.

Brandon didn't want her dead, but he saw himself coming at her from the darkness. He'd grasp her slender arms, and inhale her fear like it was the finest perfume. She'd gasp, maybe whimper, or even scream as he pulled her to close, savoring her exquisite terror. Oh, how she'd taste, her blood sweet nectar in his mouth. He'd make love to her, school her in the ways of pleasure—and pain. He'd spoil her for mere mortal men, and afterwards—

—_what then? Leave her empty and drained as you have so many others? _

The cold cleared his head. He was running, a blur of motion without a destination. Streets flew by, alternating patterns of light and dark, colorless shapes in moonlight. Asphalt ribbons, each one alike, each one different. Whizzing past cars, trucks, trains. Buildings blending together, a continuous gray fabric. Vague forms which might be people, or trees, or light poles.

When he stopped, Brandon found himself in the midst of a garish neon jungle of all-night strip clubs, juke joints, bars and peep shows. Sounds of raucous music: rap, hip-hop, rock. Body-grinding, booty-shaking pelvic thrusts on every side. Chase walked through the miasma of light and sound, hunger eating away at his insides. There were women: white, brown, yellow, black. He could have his pick. Take them in twos, in threes; together, with men, with other women—it didn't matter here. Money wasn't the only currency here: drugs, guns, liquor, it was all good.

She was decent looking, the one who chose him, and smelled clean. Young, not long to the life. Hidden beneath heavy make-up, but Brandon accepted her almost timid approach, nodding agreement to her price. She knew he was dangerous, but she bravely made her choice. He followed her into a dingy, one room flat in a rundown motel. It smelled better inside than out, and her sheets were clean. She was _café au lait,_ inheriting the best of both races. Full breasts, narrow waist, hips wide and accommodating.

There was no tenderness, no intricate mating ritual. There was just sex.

Chase knew his strength, and didn't hurt her, but he used her, filling her time and again. Thrusting, pumping, pounding. The old bed squeaked out a rhythm as old as history. He made slick with her own juices, giving her at least some pleasure to make up for the pain his rage caused. Her blood was surprisingly untainted; years from now, she'd be like the others: strung out, diseased, dying a slow, insidious, poisonous death. For now, her youth was a commodity, bought and sold for a fair market value. Chase would pay her well, more than enough to take her away from this world, should she wish it. That choice was hers, though. He could only offer her the means. Afterwards, the rage appeased, he left her asleep. Exhausted, tangled in ripped sheets, body covered in sweat—but alive.

He wandered again, this time away from lights and sounds and the smell of greed. Quiet streets of broken dreams and abandoned houses. Empty windows witnessed his passing like sightless eyes. Prowling the night like a satisfied predator. Slinking from shadow to shadow, a hunter not in search of prey. One street blended into another. Some still bore scars of a riot in 1988. Others bore gang symbols and newer graffiti—street art, they called it. All of it washed clean in moonlight and mist as the dew rose. Nothing stirred, save the scurrying of vermin.

It was the overpass which made him realize exactly where his feet had instinctively brought him. The ever-present 50-gallon drum smoldered, standing alone in the shadows, at rest, duty done for the moment. He peered up beneath the bridge, saw vague lumps which might be humans, keen ears catching sounds: raspy breathing, strangled snoring. He smelled their stench: puke, urine, stale bodies. There was no hope in this darkness; it had all drained into the gutters.

Chase found himself in front of an iron gate. _Her_ gate. He leapt the fence without a conscious thought, soaring up to a second floor window ledge. A precarious perch, Brandon hovered lest his weight collapse the aged wood. A single low wattage bulb lighted what had once been an attractive room. His fingers found purchase on the frame, and he peered through the sheer curtains.

Inside, Meredith lay in the light, asleep. A book she was reading lay open on her stomach. The bed was heavy, a four posted holdover from the days when craftsmen took pride in their work. She lay angled to one side, resting against feather pillows. White sheets and a handmade quilt covered her. She looked ethereal, like an angel come to earth. Relaxed in slumber, her breast rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Features composed.

_Would she dreamed of me, but she doesn't know me—yet._

The instant he thought it, he knew it as truth. He was yet a stranger, a _dangerous_ stranger, the very kind of stranger she should avoid. Brandon was no longer a knight in shining armor come to rescue a fair damsel from the dragon. He _was_ the dragon, more likely to ravish than romance. Chase watched her sleep, remembering things he did earlier, projecting those images of raw, animalistic sex onto her. He felt himself harden again, lust throbbing in his groin. Like a demon, he wanted to take this angel's innocence. There was no gentleness in this hunger, there was only the wanting.

She stirred. Chase wasn't sure if he made a noise, or if she awakened on her own. He wasn't willing to risk discovery, and flew from the window. An eye blink later, he was hidden amidst the mossy branches of the oak, watching as she rose from the bed and moved out of sight. A light came on in another, smaller window; he heard rushing water. She reappeared after the light went off. A moment later and she'd turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into full darkness. But, Meredith didn't instantly lie down, instead crossing the room to pull back the sheers to peer out at the night.

Brandon watched, seeing a dreamy expression reflecting in the moonlight. He was captivated, almost swearing she knew of his presence. She watched the moon ride the sky, then let the curtains fall into place. He lost sight of her in the shadows, and was forced to content himself with images of her lying beside him, beneath him, before him.

Only one thought burned inside Chase as he turned toward home: he wanted Meredith was he'd not wanted another human for over two centuries.

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thanks to everyone who left a review, or sent me a PM regarding the story. The encouragement has been great, as have the discussions of historical facts. One thing I'd like to note: the Cromwell Chase discussed was Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII's Chief Minister. I can highly recommend Showtime's series _The Tudors_, which was partly my inspiration for Chase Brandon.


	6. Ave Maria

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Part 6****: ****Ave Maria**

"_Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."—Gospel of St. Luke, Franz Schubert/music_

Chase loved winter, and not only for shorter days and longer nights. The cold season certainly was tailor made for vampires. Dusk came early close to mid-winter, so it was no surprise to find Brandon roaming the streets of downtown Shreveport. Store windows were gaily decorated, filled with holiday fashions and gift ideas. Signs of Christmas glittered and blinked. Trees were covered with lights and tinsel. Garland and banners proclaiming "Peace on Earth" festooned the city, and Salvation Army Santas stood in front of stores ringing bells.

Before his death, Yuletide was one of Chase's favorite holidays. Lighting the Yule log, feasting and drinking through the long winter nights, the receiving of gifts—especially from Henry who was most generous when the mood took him. Brandon enjoyed the music and dancing, the pantomimes and frivolity. Twelve days of celebration, from St. Stephan's day to Epiphany when gifts were exchanged. Some years there'd be snow and the fun which came with it: sledding, riding in sleighs, snow fights. Other times it was just cold and damp. Hearths burned brightly to warm the body while mulled cider warmed the soul.

After nearly five centuries, Christmas lost a little of its luster, albeit he still enjoyed getting gifts. (He just preferred his presents to breathe and have full veins.) To Brandon's eyes, the tinsel was a little tarnished and the lights weren't as festive as they used to be. He avoided attending church, having little interest in religions that damned him to hell. Being a novelty at parties wasn't his idea of fun, and one could only see so many performances of _The Nutcracker Suite_ before wanting to throttle the Sugarplum Fairy.

Invitations arrived daily, and most were tossed out nightly. He sent checks to charity organizations in lieu of attending $100-a-plate fund-raising dinners; what could _he_ eat? Requests for his presence at gala evenings of "Holiday on Ice" and the Opera Guild's _Amahl & the Night Visitors_. He attended a few private parties hosted by business associates and vampires who pretended they were just humans with odd dietary restrictions. On the whole, Brandon remained aloof from the celebrations, save where his attendance was expected.

Mostly he wandered alone, savoring the beauty of the season. Ever a music lover, Chase attended concerts by the symphony orchestra and recitals by choral groups. He heard a thousand renditions of _Silent Night_, _Silver Bells_ and _White Christmas_, each one the same and yet different from one another. Christmas carols were everywhere: stores, malls, restaurants, bars, cars. Church bells chimed the hour with the notes of _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_ and _The First Noel._

It was still early in the evening when Chase found himself on the poorer side of town. Not so many festive decorations; a door wreath here, a string of colored lights there. The smell of wood smoke from chimneys, the occasional car. He wasn't far from _Fangtasia _when he heard singing. It came from inside an unprepossessing building: rectangular, two stories, concrete block walls, double doors in front, a row of windows along the side. He could smell food and heard the soft undertone of shuffling feet. There was no accompaniment for the voice, but the singing didn't need an instrument. The voice _was_ an instrument.

It made Brandon pause. He stood outside, listening.

It was one of the most beautiful renditions of Schubert's_ Ave Maria_ he ever heard. She sang like an angel, voice lilting and sweet. The Latin words flowed from her throat, wrapping around Chase, lifting his spirits as little had since he lost his humanity. The song drew him, holding him captive with its haunting beauty. Brandon crept to the nearest window and peered inside, hoping for a glimpse of the singer.

A sign on the back wall read "St. Vincent Mission," and the room was filled with tables and chairs. A line of humans wrapped around the interior: black, white, old, young, sick, well. Like him, they stood in silence, enraptured by the singer's voice. A priest and two nuns stood to one side, serving food from aluminum trays. People filed by with plastic plates and cups. It was simple fare: soup, bologna sandwiches, coffee, milk for the children. In one corner, a small Christmas tree decorated with colorful paper-chain garland, cut-out angels and a few shiny glass bulbs. At the top, a star; beneath, a _creche_. On the tables, paper covers with a Christmas theme. Some boughs of holly decorating a make-shift altar. Not a cathedral, but to these people the mission meant hope.

It was the singer herself who riveted Brandon's attention. Meredith Ward stood on the raised dais, eyes closed as she sang in a perfect, clear soprano. A halo of pale hair framed her face. Modest clothes, slightly newer than what she'd previously worn. When the song ended, she left the dais to help serve food. The priest asked a blessing and they began to eat with the gusto of those who haven't had a hot meal in awhile. He recognized "Roscoe" and two other men from beneath the I-49 bridge; saw her greet them with a smile as she filled their plates. That expression never wavered, even at the most pitiful sight.

She took her leave while they ate. Chase watched the nuns thank her as she pulled on her old blue coat, the woolen hat and gloves. In moments, she was outside, walking away from the mission. She carried a case Chase suspected contained her lute, walking with a degree of confidence he hadn't seen before. Her expression was pleased, as if she knew she'd performed well.

Perhaps it was this new attitude which made Brandon approach. As if by their own volition, his feet carried him to the sidewalk. "Good evening." His baritone was a little louder than expected; he had no desire to frighten her. Again. "Was that your singing I heard?"

She stopped and turned, eyes wide. "Excuse me?" She seemed startled to find a strange man standing behind her. She peered at Chase, head to one side. "Do I know you?"

"Not really, but we did meet once." Chase stepped a little closer. "I gave you an umbrella."

He watched realization dawn. "Yes! I still have it," she told him, a ghost of a smile on her face. "Do you want it back?" A pause; she appeared a little nervous. "Thank you for loaning it to me." Her eyes raked over Brandon's face, apparently trying to judge him friend or foe. "It kept me from getting completely drenched." Nervous talk.

"My pleasure, Miss. Please keep it. You may need it again." Another step closer, but still giving her plenty of personal space. Chase poured on the charm, smiling and using just the slightest bit of glamour. Just to make sure she didn't panic.

The girl was quiet, blinking a couple of times. She still didn't appear convinced, but there was more curiosity in her expression than fear. "You seem to know my name, but I don't know yours." Speaking voice cultured and polite.

"Chase Brandon," he said, offering a shallow bow.

"Chase." Meredith repeated his name, as if testing the sound of it. "An unusual name. Is it short for something?"

"Charles." A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "I believe my nanny chose the moniker, since I disliked the diminutions of my first name. It seemed appropriate, since she spent a great deal of time chasing after me."

Brandon watched her expression relax, her posture losing its tension. "My parents called me Merry. Logical, I guess." She shifted from one foot to the other. "You heard me singing? I had no idea my voice carried so far."

"I have exceptional hearing. It was quite lovely," Chase said, acknowledging her talent. "Do you sing solo often?"

"Not _a cappella_ like that. Usually I play lute and sing with the Centenary College Chorus." She indicated the case. "We get a _lot_ of bookings this time of year, but I come here because these people need spiritual uplifting." She looked at the mission, about half a block behind. "It's all about giving them hope."

A cold wind then swept down the street, scattering fallen leaves; she turned her back until it died. Chase frowned, feeling every bit the knave. "I'm sorry, Miss Ward—I'm being selfish to keep you out in the cold. Is your car nearby?"

Hesitation. "I-I usually take the bus, but it doesn't run after eight, so I walk."

"Then, let me call you a taxi—"

"Oh, no need to do that! I only live a few blocks from here." The protest was sincere. "I'm used to walking." She glanced at the dark street and seemed more determined than enthusiastic.

"If you don't consider it presumptuous, may I accompany you? A lovely woman should _never_ be without escort. My parents would be appalled. They raised me to be a gentleman."

Without asking permission, Chase reached for the lute case, his hand brushing hers. The warmth of her sent fire through his body, rousing his passion. Unfortunately, he saw the touch of his cold flesh send a shiver through her. Unless she was completely stupid, she likely guessed what he was. There was a brief flash of wariness in her eyes, but it quickly dissipated because of the mild glamour.

"Sure, Mr. Brandon." There was only a faint hint of uncertainty in Meredith's voice. "It's nice to have someone to talk to."

Chase let Meredith set their pace. She was, after all, somewhat shorter in stature than himself, and it would be rude to make her keep up with his long strides. He didn't offer an arm, though it _was_ a temptation. He'd always enjoyed strolling with a lovely woman (or two) on his arm, his prowess with ladies the envy of many a man at court. Brandon imagined Meredith wearing a brocaded gown, strolling at his side through the gardens of Hampton Court. He had an easy-going, natural charm about him; how else would he have captivated the heart of Henry's sister?

_Albeit Mary was quite a charmer herself, and a wildcat in the bedchamber._

Brandon couldn't help noticing Meredith stealing sidelong glances at him, amused he was doing the same at her. He caught her eye, and she blushed. He felt heat from her embarrassment, and literally heard blood rushing to her cheeks. It wasn't easy, but he managed to control the sudden wave of want he suddenly felt. As he gazed down at Meredith, the dirty streets faded out of focus and all he saw was the vision of loveliness at his side.

"...and there're still a few tickets left."

Caught in the midst of his daydream (night dream?), it took Brandon a moment to realize Meredith was talking to him. It was his turn to be embarrassed, a rare event indeed. He looked at her, saw the questioning expression on her face.

"I'm so very sorry. I didn't quite catch that."

"I was just wondering if you were busy the twenty-sixth. That's the annual St. Stephan's Day madrigal dinner," Meredith informed him. "Please come. It's being held in Silver Lake Ballroom, and the proceeds go to the Historical Preservation Society." She paused, adding, "This year I'll be singing the Boar's Head Carol as the servers bring in, well, the boar's head." She laughed, the sound nearly as musical as her singing.

They reached the end of the second block, and turned east onto 78th Street. There were more street lights here, but little difference in what the lights revealed: rundown houses, condemned apartment complexes, abandoned businesses. Chase vaguely recognized the area, but made no mention of that to Meredith. Lights from I-49 glowed amber in the night sky.

Chase vaguely recalled receiving information no the dinner, since he generally supported local charities. It was probably still on his desk or filed away. He usually told Matthew to purchase two tickets, but thought Brandon had never attended. Chase felt odd going to such affairs when he was unable to partake of the meal. Rather like having his nose pressed up against a bakery window while others enjoyed the pastries within.

"I'm not certain—"

"It doesn't matter if you eat or not," Meredith interrupted. "One of my faculty advisors was a vampire. Dr. Gerhardt attends every year. No one seems to notice she doesn't eat." She shrugged, thrusting her hands deep in her pockets. "It's kind of like being vegetarian, or having dietary restrictions. You just let someone know ahead of time."

Difficult to argue with logic. Chase looked at the girl, impressed by her intuitive assessment of the situation. "You make an excellent argument," he admitted. "I'll consider it, since I probably purchased tickets."

"Really?" Meredith seemed surprised, but pleased. "Cool. It's going to be a lot better this year. We got new costumes, and the Arts Council will be helping out."

"Excellent." Chase pondered a moment, then asked, "You mentioned your advisor was a Dr. Gerhardt. Would that be Helga Gerhardt, by any chance?" He'd never known what the German vampire did. Frankly, until this moment, she held little interest for him.

Meredith's nod confirmed. "She was my advisor _last_ year," she explained as they turned south on Dillman Ave. "I have a new one now, since I'm a grad student. Dr. Gerhardt helped me choose the topic of my thesis—the 'Political, Social & Economic Ramifications of Henry VIII's Doctrine on Religious Reform in Medieval England.'"

Brandon's eyebrows lifted. "Sounds impressive."

Meredith chuckled. "It's really just a glorified investigative report on how King Henry went around England smashing monasteries and abbeys, then claimed the gold for his treasury. Quite a manipulator, ol' Henry. A real 'my way or the highway' kinda guy—which is a king's prerogative, I guess."

"Most decidedly so."

It was on the tip of Brandon's tongue to tell Meredith of his intimate knowledge of Henry. How the king flew into rages when thwarted, and how he divorced Queen Catherine for no other reason than he was bored with her and Anne Boleyn was a fetching little piece. The people loved Catherine of Aragon, and called the Boleyn wench a whore. Chase had been one of the commissioners appointed by Henry to dismiss Catherine's household, a task he found odious. Such things he did during then were done for love of Henry, nothing more. He could tell Meredith a great deal about the razing of religious edifices, including his part in putting down the Catholic rebellion in Louth, and the execution of the "traitors." All things considered, he chose not to speak.

They walked in silence for a block before Meredith spoke again. "Did you know there was a Brandon at Henry VIII's court? A Lord Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk. He was Henry's close friend, even married Henry's sister." A pause. "Any relation?"

No doubt of it, the girl knew her history. "You learn that from study, or watching _The Tudors_ on TV?" He asked with a smir, teasing her.

It was impossible to miss her annoyance. "While the series is entertaining, it's horribly inaccurate in _so_ many ways."

Meredith went on to list several discrepancies between _real_ history and Hollywood myth. Brandon listened, amused by her recitation. Interesting to see himself, Henry, Catherine and Wolsey though another's eyes. She spoke with authority, admitting historians could only theorize about the loss of Anne Boleyn's stillborn and her supposed infidelity. Perhaps it was the sound of her voice, or the passion with which she spoke, but it was all too soon when she stopped in front of that iron gate.

"This's my house," Meredith said, smiling at Chase. "Sorry to talk your ear off, but I don't often get the chance to talk about it. Most of my friends stop me before I bore them to death." Humor danced in her eyes. "Thank you for walking me home." One of her hands extended.

Chase hesitated, then grasped it gently. "It was my pleasure, Miss Ward."

He felt that same surge of warmth fill him as her flesh touched his. If his heart still beat, it would be pounding in his chest. Brandon remembered what it was to be alive, to feel the warmth of a woman in his arms, her soft flesh yielding. The hunger for sex wasn't dissimilar to a vampire's hunger for blood, the difference being results. A man need only fear getting the object of his lust pregnant; a vampire ran the risk of killing her.

It wasn't easy, but Chase managed to control the urge to take her in his arms, to kiss, to seduce her. To slake his thirst with Meredith's blood. He forced back fangs threatening to extend, contenting himself with bowing gallantly. Chase lightly brushed his lips over the back of her knuckles, but never actually touched her skin. He'd learned that little trick from Henry's dance instructor, John Farley. It was Master Farley's job not only to teach the young prince grace and courtly manners, but to see he knew the arts of seduction, as well. Many a willing serving wench helped educate Henry _and_ Charles. Later, they cut a swath through Catherine's ladies. Old or young, maid or matron, few women refused advances from the king and his friend.

"...should go inside, now."

Again he was caught amidst memories. It annoyed Chase that he so easily lost focus. "Yes, you should get out of the cold." Inane words; how awkward for a 500-year old vampire to act the schoolboy. What next?—an attack of puberty?

"I'll look for you at the dinner, then." Meredith was taking her leave of him, taking the lute case he held. If she found his lack of focus unusual, she said nothing. "It's been nice talking to you, Mr. Brandon."

Recovered now. "Chase, please."

"Chase." Smiling, now that the case was firmly in her grasp. "Then call me Merry. Turnabout's fair play."

"Merry." The sound of her name conjured inappropriate images. "I bid you good evening, then, with hope of continuing our conversation at some future time."

Brandon waited at the gate until Meredith disappeared inside, then turned his steps toward _Fangtasia_. The walk cleared his head, allowing him to think of other things. A sudden gust of wind picked up a discarded page of the Shreveport Times, tossing it like a kite. It sailed into Chase, enveloping his face. He tore it away, glancing at the large, bold headline. He stopped, took a second look. Then a third.

BOSSIER POLICE FIND SECOND VAMPIRE VICTIM

Chase turned his back to the wind, eyes scanning the article. Details were sketchy—obviously, police wouldn't want to publish all the information they had—but there was enough to give Brandon an icy feeling in the general area where his stomach used to be. A moment later and Chase was a blur as he sped toward _Fangtasia_. Northman would have questions.

_And, God help me if I don't have the right answers.

* * *

_

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thanks for the reviews, folks!

To ericsmine – That's what I thought, too. Mind you, I like Sookie w/Eric, but she can be very bratty sometimes. I don't think she stops to realize how her attitude would look to another vampire.

To murgatroid-98m – Chase is no fool. He's not gonna give Sookie a piece of his mind and make Eric mad. Pam can get away with it; Chase? No. At least not right now....


	7. Torches

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 7****: ****Torches**

"_Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabella, bring a torch, come swiftly and run, Christ is born. Tell the folk of the village Jesus is sleeping in His cradle. Ah, ah, beautiful is the Mother. Ah, ah, beautiful is her Son."—Traditional French carol, c. 1553_

The Sheriff's answer was to call a meeting of all Area Five vampires. There weren't many, just twenty-five—twenty-six, including Northman. They hailed from all parts of the world and came from all walks of life: academic, entertainment, entrepreneur, finance, law enforcement. Chase had at least a nodding acquaintance with them, mostly from _Fangtasia._ There were the usual rivalries and disagreements amongst each other, but the Sheriff was determined to present a united front to the rest of the world.

To avoid possible security breaches at his own condo, Northman decided the meeting would take place at Brandon's house. It was, after all, located in one Shreveport's wealthier suburbs where older homes rubbed elbows with newly constructed houses. Access was limited: only those who lived there (or authorized guests) could enter the gated community. There were roving patrols, cameras at the intersections of well-lighted streets, and the homes were equipped with state-of-the-art security systems.

In Medieval terms, it would've been an easily defendable fortress. Sitting on a point of land jutting into Cross Lake, _Woodsmere_ was originally built in 1916 by James Rawling, a transplanted New York railroad tycoon. The Mock Tudor house reminded Brandon of his own _Westhorpe Hall_, one of the many estates bestowed upon him by Henry. It stood three stories tall and had walls made of Maine granite. Rawling was known as an excellent host, throwing weekend house parties with lavish entertainments for guests he'd bring in on private trains. Sadly, Rawling lost everything in the Crash of '29. There were many owners in the intervening years, including the city, who wanted to turn it into a resort hotel.

Money for the planned renovations never materialized, and the people of Shreveport voted to spend their funds more wisely. It was sold to one individual, then to another, and so on until Chase purchased it as an investment property. He never meant to live there, though he liked the place well enough. Renovations began in early 2004, with plans for him to sell it on the international real estate market.

Then came Katrina. She forced Chase to relocate from New Orleans. The storm did structural damage to the apartment house he owned in the _Vieux Carré._ After 278-years of weathering the elements, the building simply could not withstand such a major storm. It first lost the roof, then part of a brick wall, eventually collapsing on top of itself. Fortunately, he and his tenants escaped unscathed, though the humans ended up in one of the refugee camps. Brandon himself fled before the Category 4 hurricane made landfall. Quite a few of the New Orleans vampires weren't as lucky.

According to Northman, many vampires perished in Katrina, or lost their havens. Queen Sophie Anne was at her wits end for some time after the storm, trying to put the pieces of her broken queen-dom back together. She never quite managed, and now it was too late. Unlike the late queen, New Orleans was resilient, surviving Mother Nature's fury to rebuild itself.

_Fitting that a Vegas vampire is now king of a state where casinos were rebuilt before homes._

So, Brandon moved into _Woodsmere_ as he'd never meant to. The renovations continued in earnest, since the Shreveport house would now be his primary home.

First to arrive was Northman himself, followed closely by Pam. They were greeted by Chase's long time steward, Matthew Hornsby, and shown into the large, formal drawing room. One of Brandon's favorite places in the house, it was completely period in decor. Dark, oak paneling once covered walls of the drawing room in an estate house in England. Fallen beyond repair, Chase purchased that house with the sole purpose in mind to save what he could for use in renovating _Woodsmere_. Walls, flooring, wainscoting, crown molding—everything that could be preserved or restored was carefully removed and shipped to the States. Now the dull, aged wood gleamed with the deep luster which only comes from polishing with beeswax.

Comfortable chairs were arranged around the huge hearth. In deference to the weather and aesthetics, a fire burned brightly, flames crackling as the wood popped and sputtered. Pam immediately made herself at home, dropping into one of the wing-back chairs. Not exactly Brandon's period, they were better padded than the wooden monstrosities of Tudor times. Northman, however, hovered near the fireplace, silently watching the fire.

"He's in a mood," Pam explained, rolling her eyes. She gave an exaggerated sigh by forcing air in and out of her chest. Not exactly breathing, it nonetheless conveyed her feelings on the matter.

Brandon acknowledged Pam's comment with a nod, nothing more. For once, he was in complete agreement with the Viking. This was the concern of _all_ the Area Five vampires. Even though the murder (murders, if the first one at _Fangtasia_ was taken into account) wasn't committed by a vampire, a certain amount of the populace would believe otherwise. Therefore, this needed to stop before things got out of hand.

_By that, I mean torch wielding gangs of ignorant trailer trash who bought into the whole FOTS philosophy that the only good vampire is a staked vampire._

Slowly but surely, the rest of the Area Five vampires arrived, with Bubba and Julio Menéndez last through the doors. Matthew made sure everyone was served a glass of Brandon's private stock of Royal Blüd, a fine French blend definitely _not_ synthetic. (For Bubba, whose tastes ran more to a feline vintage, there was True Blood.) Once everyone was comfortable, the manservant made a discreet withdrawal from the room, closing the double doors behind himself. All eyes turned toward Northman, who stood in front of the fireplace.

"There's a problem, and I want it solved."

There were no opening jokes, no niceties, no thanking anyone for being there. The Viking towered over the seated vampires, his cold eyes moved from face to face. His lips were pulled into a thin line, making his face angular and hard. It might have been better if the Sheriff showed anger, but his features were frozen in an emotionless mask.

"I want the perpetrators found." Northman focused on Menéndez, silent for a few moments before he spoke again. "What have the police discovered?" It was not a request.

Everyone could see the detective was uncomfortable under that icy scrutiny. "Not much," he admitted. His voice wavered slightly, and it was easy to tell the vampire fought an internal war: loyalty to his race, dedication to his job. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. "We identified the first victim, but the second isn't in our jurisdiction. All I know is both women were found in dumpsters behind casinos, the Eldorado and the Louisiana Downs in Bossier City."

Northman's head tilted slightly to one side, as if to convey he was waiting for the Spaniard to continue.

"Eileen Kildare, a systems analyst working for LSM Gaming, Inc., was here overseeing a merge with Beauliere Investment Corporation, LLC," Menéndez said. "Thirty-two, divorced, no kids." The detective stopped for a moment, still fighting that losing battle. "She was from Gulfport, where she was a known associate of Simon Beauliere." No need to say Beauliere was a vampire. "BIC owns a condo in Summer Winds, where she stayed. She left work at the usual time, but didn't show up the next morning. Last person to see her alive was a convenience store clerk where she stopped for cigarettes. He said she was alone, but there were two men hanging around outside when she entered. He didn't remember anything special about them, just described them as bums."

Again, the Viking was silent, eyes never leaving the Spaniard. Finally, "How was she killed?"

"Exsanguination. Coroner found three bite marks on her, all consistent with vampire fangs." He went on to add placement of wounds, which were nearly identical to those of the first victim, the one not reported. "...definitely not the crime scene. Theory is, she was killed somewhere else, then transported to the dumpster behind the Eldoraro. They're canvassing the area for witnesses, but have nothing so far." Julio paused, then added, "Forensics found some trace evidence, but they won't know anything until they get the DNA test results."

"And that will be—?"

Menéndez's lips compressed into a thin line, which is to say, they disappeared altogether. "This isn't _CSI_. We don't get DNA tests results in an hour. The lab in Baton Rouge is backed up. We'll be lucky to get the results by the middle of January. Sir."

Frustration was etched on Northman's chiseled features. "I see." His hands rested on the back of the chair he stood behind, index finger tapping. "You will inform me of those test results."

"Of course." The detective, nodded, lips still compressed. He was by no means happy. He picked up a manila folder on the table beside him, handing it over to Eric. "Here's a copy of everything I could find. It's not my case, so I don't have access to all the files." There was distaste in his tone, and the Spaniard fell into a sullen silence for the rest of the meeting.

"Where's Bones when we need her," quipped Pam, who drew a frown from her sire. "Oh, come on—that was funny." She made an exaggerated frown as she sipped her Royal Blüd.

Chase quirked a half-smile at Pam, probably the only one present who appreciated her irreverent gallows humor, dark and wry. A couple of other vampires chuckled _very_ softly, probably afraid of incurring Northman's wrath.

"The perpetrators, they are human, no?" This from Helga Gerhardt. The German leaned forward in her chair, pinning Menéndez with her eyes. "Could this be the work of, how you say it—an outlaw?"

"I was wondering the same thing." Bill Compton spoke up. "Not to mention some of our race say those of us who revealed ourselves sold out to the humans. Maybe it's one of them trying to turn people against us?" Chase saw the Bon Temp vampire had healed well after the Fae war, and looked almost back to normal.

The debate went on for a while, with everyone voicing an opinion, or putting forth an idea. Northman listened, and somewhere in the middle of the discussion, came around the chair to sit. Brandon met his eyes once, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders; as if to say, 'don't ask me, I've no clue.' At the very least, personal differences and petty disagreements were set aside in view of what could possibly be a greater threat.

"...could be anyone, that's th'frustratin' part. If'n we knew who t'look for, we could get th' truth outta them." That was from a vampire who spoke with a thick, Southern accent. He looked no older than sixteen, but had been turned before the War Between the States. "They had t'leave _some_ evidence. Ain't no sich thang as th' perfect crime."

While Chase personally agreed with teenaged Billy-Bob Montgomery, he remained quiet, letting the others talk. Some were openly curious about Eric's concern; they were only a humans, after all. Even if the killer _did_ try to make their deaths look like a vampire attack, dead humans were still just dead humans. Let the human police figure it out. Those thoughts were quickly quashed by a cold look from Northman.

"Humans panic easily." Chase finally heard himself say. "The media loves to sensationalize things like this—especially if it paints a minority in a bad light. We have enemies—_powerful_ enemies. We may own the night, but _they_ own the day." Every vampire present fell silent, listening. "That which terrifies humans is a burning torch in the hand of our enemies."

The point was understood, even by those vampires created after electricity was common. A few faces wore haunted expressions as memories of close calls or the loss of loved ones surfaced. Others, the younger ones, appeared more skeptical, but even they felt an instinctive fear of final death.

"Didn't any of you ever see _Love at First Bite_?" Pam inquired. When only three people nodded, she shook her head. "_I_ think it should be required watching for fledgling vampires. Such an _inspired_ film." Sarcasm. That was Pam's Muse.

"Enough." Again Northman fixed his childe with cold eyes. That singe word ended the debate.

"Brandon speaks true. Some of us are old enough to remember what frightened, angry mobs can do. I do not want that in my domain." He stood, fixing his icy gaze on the whole room. "If there is a rogue vampire—_find him_. If the killer is human—find them, but do _not_ kill them unless in self-defense. A human killer _must_ be turned over to the human police."

Focused, Northman looked from one to the other of those gathered. "In the meantime, _I_ have the dubious honor of informing His Majesty of this threat—unless another of you would enjoy handling that for me?" Silence. "What?—no volunteers?"

"That's why they pay you the big bucks." Pam again. "All right, if this shindig is over, I need to go see if the bar's still standing." She stood up as well, smoothing the tight, black miniskirt she wore. "I expect to see _some_ of you there to thrill the hearts of the fangbangers." She smirked, nodding farewell to her sire.

Northman lingered a few minutes, answering questions from a couple of vampires Brandon knew only slightly. Menéndez approached Chase on his way out, nodding a greeting.

"You have a beautiful home, _Señor_ Brandon." His dark eyes moved over the wood paneling, taking in the paintings and tapestries. "Such an eye for detail. My mother appreciated such lovely things like these."

Of course, his mother probably died fifty years ago. "Thank you." Brandon was polite, but cool. He didn't like the Spaniard, and there was another person he wanted to speak with before she left. "If you'll excuse me?—Matthew will show you out." Indeed, Hornsby was standing by the open doors, ready to be of assistance.

Brandon made a beeline for Helga Gerhardt. "Good evening, Dr. Gerhardt." He used her title, which made her brows lift in surprise.

Helga's heavy, Germanic features softened slightly when she smiled. "You know I teach?" she asked. "I do not often speak of my profession lest I bore those around me. The young ones, the fangbangers and would-be vampires, they do not wish a lecture on history." She shook her head, chuckling. "How is it you know of me?"

"I met one of your students. She spoke highly of you." He paused, nodding good-bye to others leaving. "Meredith Ward—I'm sure you remember her."

"_Ja_!" The woman's face was suddenly animated. Her smile widened, and she nodded vigorously. "She was my teaching assistant last year, and I miss her. I am, as you would say, not very organized. My office is now a mess."

Chase nodded, offering Helga what passed as a smile for him. "I was thinking of attending the madrigal dinner, and wondered if you would care to join me." Not that Brandon planned to spend the evening with the German; she was a means to an end, nothing more. "Safety in numbers, and all that." His laugh was _almost_ genuine; at least it sounded real to his ears.

"_Ja, ja_—that would be nice. Ingrid is in Germany for research. She thinks she has found proof _das Führer _escaped to Argentina with Eva Braun." There was a roll of her eyes. "She is obsessed with that _swinehund_."

"Excellent. Shall I pick you up at seven?"

"That would be perfect." Helga went on to give him an address in the Highland-Stoner Hill historical district not too far from Centenary College campus. "My house is not as grand as yours, but Ingrid and I are content." Ingrid being her childe and long-time lover, younger than Helga by some twenty years.

From the suddenly gregarious Helga, Brandon learned more about Meredith. Because she was related to Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild, she sat on the Board of Directors for the Historical Preservation Society. Apparently the late Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild (who, in 2007 at the age of 91, helped found the HPS) willed her seat to Meredith because of their mutual interest in preserving the past. He also learned a trust had been set aside to renovate the Dillman-Fairchild house, but nothing could be done since Lurleen's will was being contested by another recently surfaced niece. Save for a small, personal stipend, everything else was tied up in court.

"Meredith and Grace do the best they can." Grace being the late Lurleen's longtime housekeeper, the older black woman Chase saw the first night he followed Meredith. "The children?—one is Grace's grandson, the other two Grace babysits while the mother teaches an adult reading class at night. It is extra money for them."

Many things fell in place. The rundown appearance of the house, Meredith's worn clothes and shoes, the children. The more he learned about her, the harder it was to resist possessing her. Under his protection, there would be no need to worry over money. He could have workmen at her house by dawn. Chase knew of a researcher whose specialty was making certain the interior of old houses was authentic. He knew others sole whose job was to find antique furnishings, wall coverings and carpets. Money would be no object in restoring the Victorian manor house to its former glory. He could even inquire about purchasing the vacant lots to either side of the house and turning them into gardens.

Once Helga left and Matthew retired for the evening, Chase went upstairs to change. He chose his typical black, of course: well-fitting leather pants, perfectly tailored black shirt unbuttoned to _there_, a matching black leather jacket and boots. With his dark hair and eyes, he looked long, lean and stylish. Dashing, even handsome. He'd drive the fangbangers into a frenzy if he deigned to smile at them.

The cold didn't bother him as he tore through the night on his favorite transportation: a 1999 883 Screaming Eagle Harley-Davidson. It was like a faster version of riding horses. He got the same thrill of wind in his face and the freedom of feeling alone on the road. The state required him to wear a helmet, but he was a vampire. If he was stopped, he simply cast a glamour and _voila_!—no ticket. Perhaps some might call that abusing his gift, but Chase wouldn't be hurt in an accident like a human. Anything short of decapitation and he'd heal.

In his mind, he rode Zephyr, his beloved black Friesian. Full sixteen-hands high, intelligent and powerfully built, the horse had faithfully carried Brandon for a decade before Chase was forced to hand him over to his half-brother. Charles Brandon always rode Zephyr to the exclusion of other horses; for him to _not_ have Zephyr with him on his return to court would invite questions.

He could always say the horse died, but Zephyr had distinctive markings. If Chase ever rode him around people he knew, they'd know something was amiss. After leaving England, Brandon missed the horse almost as much as he missed his children, but it was as it was lest the deception fail. So much did he love the Friesian, Brandon later purchased a breeding farm in the Netherlands. For nearly four hundred years, _Windermere Farms_ consistently produced champions, proving a lucrative investment.

He had no horses in Louisiana, but that might change. There was ample room at _Woodsmere_ for stables. Simple to have a couple of Friesians shipped from the Netherlands. Unlike some vampires, Chase never had a problem being around horses. But, until he found another Zephyr, the Harley was an adequate substitute: fast, agile, thrilling. It served his purpose, especially when he needed to sort things out in his head.

The thought of seeing Meredith sent a rush of warmth through him which settled in his groin. It was every bit as exciting as the motorcycle between his thighs. At the moment, he wondered if Meredith had ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle, and then the seed of a plan took root. He nurtured it, pouring over it until he was satisfied it was viable.

After he knew her a little better, he'd coax her onto his Harley, and show her what it was like to feel the freedom of the night. Perhaps he'd plant the image of a knight on horseback with his lady riding pillion behind him in her thoughts.

_After all, what woman can resist a knight in shining armor?

* * *

_

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thanks again for the reviews!

To roo86: Glad you're enjoying the story!

To idyllvice: Very true, it is incongruous, but he likes to keep busy. As he said in the first chapter, he likes to be close to the action, and that means being near the Sheriff of Area 5. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it! :)


	8. Boar's Head Carol

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Part 8****: ****Boar's Head Carol**

"_The boar's head in hand bear I, bedeck'd with bay and rosemary. I pray you, my masters, merry be; Quot estis in convivio."—Traditional, found in "Wynkyn de Worde," 1521_

The following two nights passed in relative peace, save for the discovery of another murdered woman on Christmas eve. Ellen Hatcher, a twenty-five year old mother of two, was found in a dumpster behind Sears at Mall St. Vincent. Like the other women, she was nude, "bitten" and devoid of blood. Allan Taylor, a stock clerk, found her body just after closing. He also told police about two "bums" he saw hanging around the dumpster earlier that evening. Taylor ran them off thinking they were hunting for a place to sleep out of the cold. Unfortunately, the clerk didn't get a good look at their faces, and police found no evidence of them at the scene.

Though Mall St. Vincent was fairly close to _Fangtasia_, Northman didn't seem overly concerned. There was another consultation with Menéndez, but Chase wasn't invited. The bar was closed Christmas Eve, the only night of the year it wasn't open. The following night, the 26th, Chase dropped by _Fangtasia_ on his way to pick up Helga Gerhardt. Dressed in a classic tuxedo, Chase caused quite a stir amongst the female population of the bar.

Pam whistled, looking him up and down. "I hope whoever you're trying to impress is worth it." Her own leather clad body left little to the imagination, much to the appreciation of several "fang-bois" literally drooling at her heels.

Brandon smirked, deliberately refusing to rise to her bait. He had a brief word with Greg, then left. Matthew drove to Helga's house. The German vampire was dressed in a lovely lavender gown, elegant in its simplicity. Brandon complimented her on her appearance, escorting her to the car. It was a pleasant drive to Silver Lake Ballroom, with Chase and Helga deliberately avoiding talk of the murders. Mostly Brandon encouraged Gerhardt to tell him more about Meredith Ward.

Which she did. Helga was a wealth of information, particularly regarding the contestation of Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild's will. "Ah, the woman is Deidre Varnell _nee_ Dillman. She claims to be the granddaughter of Robert Simon Dillman, Lurleen's younger brother." It was a convoluted story—as they often are in Southern families. Chase made a mental note to have Murrell check into the validity of this "other niece's" claim.

"Poor Meredith, living in that old house. The HPS is trying to get it on the register of historical homes, but it is not easy, and much restoration must be done first. It is a pity."

By then they had arrived at the Ballroom, a beautiful art deco building constructed in 1931 as the Hunter Oil & Investment Company. It had housed a Dodge dealership on the ground floor and offices on the two stories above. For years it sat empty, until some enterprising person decided the building would make a great place to hold large events: weddings, meetings, parties. The interior was refurbished, leaving as much of the original decor as possible. With the proper decoration, Silver Lake Ballroom was the perfect venue for the madrigal dinner.

Brandon was impressed from the moment he walked through the double doors. The ballroom had been transformed into an excellent likeness of a medieval banquet hall. Interior red brick walls were draped in dark grey fabric the color of stone. Colorful banners hung from the ceiling and shields decorated the walls. He recognized many coats of arms from his own time period, while others seemed to be heraldic puns: "Two cats rampant purpure," which translated to a pair of purple cats standing on their hind feet facing one another. The pun came from the heraldic name for purple, pronounced "purr-purr." True, only those with knowledge of heraldry would catch the joke, but it was amusing.

A huge fireplace—oddly enough part of the original design—nearly filled one wall. Inside it burned a yule log, the faint aroma of smoke giving the ballroom an authentic ambiance. The black and white parquet floor was polished to a high gloss, reflecting light from electric "torches" on the walls. Long tables were arranged in a "U" shape, with a head table sitting atop a six-inch raised dais. Easily seating two hundred, the arrangement allowed servers to move easily along the inside of the tables. Entertainment took place in the open space created by the table arrangement, giving everyone a clear view.

Guests wore formal evening clothes: men in tuxedos, women in gowns. Entertainers, however, dressed in authentic appearing costumes. There was a king, queen and important dignitaries at the head table: the Mayor, two state Senators, President of Centenary College, and their wives. Candles lighted each table. Plates and bowls were pewter. Modern wine glasses were substituted for period mugs, but most 21st Century people likely preferred glass to metal. Lute and crumhorn played tunes Chase easily recognized as being composed in the 16th Century, the soft melodies providing a suitable background for the dining experience.

All things considered, Brandon found himself enjoying the Medieval atmosphere, even if it was pretend. The Ballroom was infinitely cleaner than the great halls throughout England. There were no musty reeds scattered over the floors, no hounds fighting for scraps, no servers with dubious bathing habits. The odor of food and wood smoke was much nicer than unwashed bodies and heavy perfumes. Nicest of all, everyone got the same food; in Henry's court, food was served by rank. Those of higher rank ate the best bread and meat, while those of lower rank were served lesser quality food.

_Have to admit, there are some things to be said about modern day equality._

Nor could Chase find fault with the entertainers. Dancers, jugglers, jongleurs, troubadours—all were talented masters at their craft. Hard to believe they were mostly college students. From the time he and Helga sat down, they were treated to a myriad of Medieval amusements. Two "knights" fought with sword and shield for the honor of the Queen's token. A troupe of gypsies performed feats of daring: knife throwing, magic tricks, fortune telling. Another troupe of courtiers performed authentic dances which actually made Chase's feet itch to join them.

Then came the main course, announced by the court Herald. Silence fell over the room as a sweet voice began to sing. He would've known it was Meredith even if she hadn't told him she'd be singing the traditional Boar's Head Carol. Four strapping young gentlemen carried the boar's head on a huge platter sitting atop a flat platform on poles resting on their shoulders. They marched in through an archway, with an appropriately garbed Meredith preceding them. She slowly led the procession around the inside of the tables, allowing each diner to view the delicacy. Other servers bearing platters of vegetables, breads and sauces followed. The aroma was heavenly, and for a brief moment, Brandon regretted his restricted diet.

There were at least three other vampires in attendance, only two of whom Chase knew: Bill Compton and Helga Gerhardt. The third was visiting from New York, the guest of a local businessman. With the vampire was a lovely young human who reminded Chase of Elizabeth Tudor in some ways. All the vampires were discreetly served True Blood in wine glasses. Helga was actually charming in her own way. Much like Anne of Cleves, she wasn't a beauty, but she was conversant on a variety of subjects. By the time dinner ended, Chase had an ally in his obsessive quest for Meredith Ward.

After the dessert course—a twelve layered raspberry torte—the collegiate chorus performed a finale. Once again, Chase heard the incredibly lovely strains of _Ave Maria_. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was in Hampton Court chapel instead of Shreveport. He wondered what it would be like to awaken each night to Meredith's beautiful voice, and having her sing him to sleep each dawn. Others would call his pondering obsession, but Chase wasn't ready to admit it to himself.

Helga invited a few of the student performers back to her home. Most of them had their own transportation, but not Meredith and Anne, a friend of hers. Brandon graciously offered the two girls a ride in his Lincoln Town Car, having no problem riding in the front with Matthew. Helga, Anne and Meredith sat in the back, the two girls exhilarated after the show. Their laughter over mistakes and missed cues was delightful, and made the trip go even faster. It wasn't long before they pulled up in front of Helga's Victorian house.

Six students, including Meredith and Anne, made themselves at home. At Gerhardt's behest, the young folks helped themselves to refreshments, showing a familiarity with their professor's house which made Brandon uneasy. Paranoia was second nature to most vampires, protection of their havens paramount to their survival. Yet, Helga apparently gave these students free access to her home without a thought for her own safety.

Everyone settled in the downstairs parlor-_cum_-library. Conversation was lively and enjoyable, with those who participated in the dinner chatting amiably about their performances. Chase actually found himself relaxing around the young people, listening with amusement to their stories. After an hour or so, two bid farewell. Two others lingered a little longer, then also said good night. That left Anne and Meredith.

Anne broached the subject of the vampires' lives before they were changed. Helga had no trouble answering, telling the girl she was a mistake. Her maker had meant to kill her, but somehow during the struggle, Helga ingested some of his blood. She awoke three days later, a vampire with no sire to teach her how to survive. The girl listened raptly as Helga explained how she took to the alleys, basements and sewers of Berlin, scavenging blood from rats and the occasional drunk. Finally, the Sheriff caught her, and she was slated for final death. However, the king took pity on her, allowing her to be taught proper behavior. She never did know her sire.

"When Hitler and his thugs came to power, I fled to America with my human companion, Franz Lipzwieg. We settled near Cambridge where Franz's brother taught music. _Ach_, but I loved the academic wolrd. My father was a professor of History at Berlin University, so I followed in his footsteps after the Great Reveal."

Anne listened, sipping tea and asking more questions. Meredith was attentive, but asked no questions of her own. Chase was less forthcoming about his background, but offered enough to satisfy Anne's curiosity. He wished Helga hadn't spoken up about the Tudor Era antiquities in his home. He saw amazement in Meredith's expression.

"_Real_ Tudor artifacts?" Meredith queried, eyes wide. She sat on a divan, mug of tea held in both hands. "They must be incredible."

"Indeed, yes. Mr. Brandon has a collection of illuminated manuscripts and paintings that rivals Britain's National Archives. You should ask him to show you."

Brandon saw Anne practically drool. "Oh, please? I just _love_ all those old things!" The other girl seemed inordinately impressed. She turned pleading eyes on Chase, but before he could speak, her cell phone rang. "Excuse me. I need to take this," she said, getting up from her chair. "I'll head out, too, since I need to get back before two." She bid farewell, waving over her shoulder.

Chase was curious how Anne was to get home, since she'd ridden back with them. Helga told him Anne lived in a dorm on campus, easily within walking distance. "Such a nice girl, though I do not feel the passion for history in her as I do in you, _liebling._" Helga's tone was affectionate toward Meredith. "Your new advisor is a most lucky man."

Two hours or so after Anne left, Meredith indicated it was time she headed home as well, explaining she had church the next morning. Brandon immediately offered to drive her home, but Meredith declined.

"It's not that far, and I don't want to take you out of your way. Besides, I have to get my costume back to the theater," she told Chase. "Campus security expects us to drop them off tonight."

"The college may be close, but you live too far from here to walk. I assure you, it's no trouble."

"Fine, you can drive me home, but I can walk to campus," Meredith insisted. "You're welcome to come with me, but there's no need to pollute the planet any more than necessary."

Brandon agreed, picking up the garment bag containing her costume. It was a lovely night. A full moon cast patterns of light and shadows over the street, and the temperature was just cold enough to bring out the color on Meredith's cheeks. Chase insisted on putting his jacket around her shoulders, since her coat was threadbare. She protested, naturally, but eventually accepted. After a few minutes of silence, Meredith asked Chase if he'd enjoyed the madrigal dinner.

"Very much," Brandon answered. "Of course, your performance was the highlight."

"That's sweet of you, but I think everyone was great. Didn't Anne make a great Queen?"

"She bore a striking resemblance to Mary Tudor."

"Really?" Meredith pursed her lips. "I'm not sure she'd consider that a compliment. Judging from her portraits, Bloody Mary wasn't all that attractive."

"She was quite handsome as a young girl. Mary inherited her father's red-gold hair and Catherine's delicate build. She had a charming personality." Chase paused, remembering Henry's oldest daughter before she was so ill-treated by her father and Anne Boleyn. "She grew old and bitter before her time."

Meredith nodded. "Is it any wonder, considering what she went through? She had a horrible life after Henry divorced Catherine." She looked up at Brandon. "You knew them. You _were_ that Charles Brandon." It was a statement, not a question.

"I _am_ that Charles Brandon, yes." No use denying it. Meredith remained silent as they turned onto the sidewalk running behind the Marjorie Lyon Theater. "Does it bother you?"

"I don't know—" She stopped, looking at the ground. "That's Anne's shoe." Meredith pointed to the hedge lining the sidewalk. She stepped over and picked up the high-heel from beneath one of the trees. "Why on earth is it _here_?"

"Could she have lost it out of her bag?"

"No, she was wearing these shoes." Meredith looked thoughtful. "Don't know how she could walk wearing only one, but I guess I'll give her a call tomorrow about it."

With that settled, they continued to the theater, noting a campus security car parked outside. The officer was sound asleep, and didn't look happy to be awakened. He gave them a disgruntled glare, sullenly getting out of the car to let Meredith in the back door.

"I won't be long," Meredith promised. "Just need to hang this up." She indicated her costume bag Chase handed to her.

The guard returned to his car as soon as Meredith disappeared inside, driving away. Brandon was alone at the back door. Glancing around, Chase noticed two men walking toward a large building not far away. They disappeared around the building, so Chase figured them for students. Tree-lined Wilkerson Ave. ran behind the theater, and to one side was a large parking area. A smaller building bore a sign reading "LANDSCAPING," which Brandon took to mean it housed grounds keeping equipment. Two large dumpsters sat adjacent to a driveway wide enough to accommodate service vehicles and delivery trucks. A neatly trimmed lawn between the buildings was shaded by pine and oak trees, with shrubs and benches beneath.

The night was quiet, the air permeated by the lingering aroma of wood smoke and fuel oil from houses across the street. Definitely an upper middle class neighborhood, judging by vehicles parked in the driveways. Most trees had lost their leaves, except for pines and evergreens. Their delicate scent wafted on the cold air. No traffic in the immediate vicinity, save for a dark van turning onto Washington St. The engine sounded rough, like it hadn't been tuned up in years. It seemed at odds with such an upscale neighborhood. Chase thought it likely belonged to a student.

Lifting his face, Brandon closed his eyes and let his preternatural senses inhale this shadowy world. He relaxed—until he suddenly detected a scent which overpowered everything else.

_Blood._

Frowning, Chase tried to focus on the exact location from whence the odor emanated. Drawn by curiosity, Brandon followed his nose toward the equipment shed. In specific, the dumpsters. He stood in front of them, unsure of his next step. Propriety demanded he think of Meredith first, but practicality dictated he should investigate. Perhaps he should contact campus security, albeit he wasn't overly impressed with the one officer he'd met.

Calling the police had it's hazards. If what he thought was inside one of those dumpsters, the cops might do something stupid—like stake first and ask questions later. It might be best to call one _specific_ policeman. Chase might not like or trust Menéndez, but the Spaniard _was_ a detective, though not assigned to the "Vampire Killer" case (as the media dubbed the murders).

"Chase?" Brandon heard Meredith call him. "Chase, where are you?"

She sounded concerned. Brandon was a blur of movement; in bare heartbeats, he was at her side. "What's wrong?" Taken aback by his sudden appearance, Meredith shrank away from him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right." She took a steadying breath, then said, "I called Anne, and her roommate said she hadn't come in yet."

Brandon didn't know what to say. "Maybe she met someone? A lover, perhaps?"

Meredith shook her head. "Her boyfriend's in Nashville, and I've never known of her to cheat on him." Her eyes were huge and dark, filled with worry. "I think something happened to her."

Not knowing what else to do, Brandon pulled out his cell phone. Matthew was told where to meet them. Chase hung up, a moment later dialing another number. "Menéndez. Brandon. Meet me behind Marjorie Lyons Theater, Centenary College campus. Lot D, off Wilkerson Ave."

"What's going on?" Meredith sounded more worried than ever.

"I called someone who might be able to help," Chase replied. "Matthew will drive you home."

There was silence, then, "No. If anything happened to Anne, I want to know. She's my best friend." Meredith folded her arms over her chest.

Brandon's first instinct was use glamour, but he recognized determination in the stubborn jut of her chin. It reminded him of someone he missed a great deal. He knew what it was like to worry over a friend.

"Very well, but it could get ugly."

"I live around ugly."

Chase nodded, leading her to the parking area, zeroing in on the dumpster closest to Wilkerson Ave. as Matthew drove up. His manservant got out of the Town Car, and Chase looked at Meredith. "I'm asking you one last time: let Matthew take you home."

"No."

"At least wait in the car where it's warm." A pause. "Please."

This time Brandon used glamour. Friends shouldn't let friends see their best friend dead inside a dumpster the day after Christmas.

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES:** I just want to say I've glossed over a lot of police procedure because I'm not at all knowledgeable about that subject. I know just enough to get by, and I've researched it online—however, that in no way makes up for a lack of true knowledge. Please forgive any mistakes I make. Thanks!


	9. Gaudete

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Part 9****: ****Gaudete**

"_The closed gate of Ezechiel has been passed through; Whence the light is born, salvation is found."_—_Piae Cantiones_, Henricus Theodoricus Nylandensis, 16th Century

Two hours later found an odd gathering in Northman's condo: Pam, Julio Menéndez, Sookie Stackhouse, Meredith Ward and Chase Brandon. The impromptu meeting took place at the Sheriff's behest, since the next person Chase had called after finding the body was Northman. The Viking insisted Brandon bring Meredith, though Chase couldn't fathom why. He preferred to keep her away from other vampires, but Northman insisted. One didn't argue with the Sheriff.

Frankly, Brandon didn't trust the Spaniard within ten feet of Meredith, but the Stackhouse girl proved helpful. She was human, and Meredith related to her better than to the wise-cracking Pam. At the best of times, Eric's childe didn't "give two hoots in hell" for humans, one of the few exceptions being the Stackhouse girl. At the moment, Sookie sat with Meredith on the sofa, offering what comfort she could to the distraught girl. Chase heard soft murmurs and occasional weeping, but the majority of his attention was on the vampires gathered around Northman's dining room table.

"You realize I'm missing _Dracula: Dead & Loving It_, don't you?" Eric's progeny said, looking bored. "It's one of my favorite movies of all time. _So_ factual!" Sarcasm, thy name is Pamela.

Brandon was amused at Menéndez's confused expression. It was always hard to tell when Pam was and wasn't serious, especially if someone didn't know her well. Brandon settled in his chair, fingers laced across his stomach. He was still dressed in his tuxedo, though he'd removed his tie. Pam wore her pink dress and pearls, looking nothing like her bar persona. Menéndez wore a dark suit and tie. Both the Stackhouse girl and Meredith wore comfortable jeans, but Northman was as impeccably dressed as always.

Menéndez held a folder which he passed to Eric. "The Bossier City victim was a stripper named Cheyenne, aka Karen Collins." Julio glanced around, his dark eyes settling on the two human women. Chase didn't like the almost hungry expression on the Spaniard's face.

Apparently, neither did Northman. The Viking steepled his fingers in front of himself, eyes hardening to chips of ice when he saw where Julio was looking. "To me, Menéndez. They do not exist to you." The voice positively dripped with menace.

The detective instantly obeyed, turning away from the women. "A dishwasher found her in a dumpster behind Fuddruckers at Louisiana Downs. Cause of death was exsanguination from a fatal bite wound to her femoral artery."

Northman's brows knitted. "Any connection to vampires?" So far, one of the victims could be traced to a vampire—not including the one found at _Fangtasia_.

"Unknown. She worked at _Belle's_ in Benton. If there's a vampire connection, you're in a better position to know than the police," Menéndez pointed out. "Time of death was between one and two a.m. Rigor mortis hadn't set in when she was found at two-thirty."

"Who discovered the body?"

"Manuel Fernandez. He was on break, and yes, his alibi is air-tight."

All in all, it was a thorough report, and Chase gave Menéndez credit for knowing his job. Pam, for all her earlier sarcasm, said nothing after the detective finished. Brandon glanced at her, noting her thoughtful expression.

"What about tonight?"

"Brandon can tell you what happened before I arrived, but it appears to be the same M.O.—exsanguination, bite marks, nude, found in a dumpster."

Northman's attention switched to Chase. It didn't take long to outline the basics from when Anne left Gerhardt's house to the moment Brandon opened the dumpster beside the equipment shed. He described how he'd insisted Meredith wait in the car with Matthew while he checked the dumpsters, finding Anne exactly where he'd figured she would be. The only difference between her and the other victims?—Anne was still warm. They had literally missed catching the perpetrators by minutes. He made mention of the two men he saw, and the van driving away, but whether they had anything to do with the crime was anyone's guess.

"After Menéndez arrived, I searched the area. The only place with a strong blood scent was the dumpster. I did smell bleach, but it dissipated within a block or so. A bloodhound might be able to track Anne's scent in a vehicle, but that's not within the scope of _my_ talent."

"What about when you first arrived? Did you see anyone?"

"Campus security, and he was snoozing when we walked up." Brandon looked over at Meredith. "I saw two men, but they were probably students. Meredith spotted her friend's shoe as we approached the theater. I even tried to catch a scent from it, but—" He shook his head.

"The media is having a field day—as usual." This from Pam. "Jessie said reporters have been calling since the third body was found."

Northman closed the Bossier City file, setting it aside. "I issued a statement this evening." Brandon watched the Sheriff's eyes dart to the Stackhouse girl, who had her arms around Meredith's shoulders. "Unless one of us does something _stupid_, we'll all seem like law abiding vampires." There was ice in those words, and he looked directly at Pam. "I trust you to handle things until I return."

"Return?" Pam sounded surprised and annoyed.

"Sookie and I were invited to spend a few days with His Majesty." The Sheriff didn't sound happy, but an invitation from the king was tantamount to an order. "We were on our way to the airport when Brandon called." He rose, signifying the meeting was ended. "Pam knows how to reach me. You all answer to her while I am gone." To Pam, "I expect nightly reports."

With that, Northman walked over to Sookie, holding out his hand. "Come." He paused, then said, "My condolences on your loss, Miss Ward. May I recommend exercising extreme caution until the perpetrators are caught." It was not a suggestion.

Once her sire and his lover left, Pam herded everyone into the living room. Meredith shrank into the corner of the huge, black leather couch, apparently trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Her eyes looked huge and lost, and even Pam softened. Chase perched protectively on the sofa arm beside her. He looked relaxed, but was completely aware of his surroundings. Should either Pam or the Spaniard make a move toward the human, they'd meet resistance in the form of a very pissed off Chase Brandon.

"So, you found nothing?" That was Pam, who sat in an adjacent chair. "Saw no one?"

Menéndez perched on the opposite sofa arm, which Chase didn't like. "I am of the opinion this is the work of a serial killer."

"No shit." Brandon sneered at the obvious. "What gave you the first clue?" Sarcasm wasn't only Pam's forte.

"I have begun investigating on my own, to see if there is a possible connection to my case." Menéndez ignored Chase's jibe.

"The Case of the Missing Bride-To-Be." Pam's expression was completely neutral; Chase knew that was a sure sign of Pam at her worst. "You sure you're not Agatha Christie in drag?"

Chase barely managed to suppress his laughter while answering Pam's original questions. "No, to both." Of Menéndez, he asked, "Any progress on the missing woman?"

"No—which is odd. We traced her whereabouts up until the exact moment she stepped out of _Fangtasia_. Then—poof!" The Spaniard spread his hands. "Nothing."

"Maybe she got cold feet." Pam again. "Or, maybe she met the vampire of her dreams and ran off with her." Pam nonchalantly pulled out a nail file. She looked up at the silence, seeing a skeptical expression on Menéndez's swarthy face. "What?—it could happen."

"It is possible, but _some_one should have seen her by now. There are flyers, even a website, yet no report of her _anywhere_." It was easy to see that troubled the detective.

"Well, I wish you luck." Chase stood, stretched, then turned to Meredith. "Come. It is past time I saw you home." There was no arguing, which made Brandon feel certain she was worn out. "I'll see you at the bar," he told Pam. Menéndez was given a nod as Chase helped Meredith to her feet.

The car ride to his home was uneventful. Chase cast a glamour to make Meredith fall asleep moments after they climbed into the back seat. She might be angry with him when she woke, but Brandon could tell Meredith was beyond exhausted. She needed rest. She didn't even wake when he carried her into his house, nor stir when he removed her coat and shoes. He placed her on the bed in his guest room, then calligraphed a note apologizing for what he did, and let her know Matthew was at her disposal when she woke.

Then Chase sat beside the bed watching her sleep. She looked as vulnerable as she had the first time he'd seen her in the alley. It roused the hunter in him, and he ached to join her on the bed. Had it not been such an emotional night for her, he might have thrown caution to the wind and seduced her. Sleep erased the strain on her face, albeit her eyes were still slightly red from crying. So simple to ease her pain with tender kisses and gentle stroke of his hands, but even Chase wasn't such a churl as to force himself on a woman upset by the loss of a close friend.

Besides, he wanted her to trust him. What better way to gain that trust than to restrain himself from taking advantage of her in such a vulnerable state. Better to maintain a rigid control of his baser instincts than to risk ruining his victory. He could use glamour, but Brandon wanted her in his bed of her own volition. Prey always tasted sweeter when they succumbed willingly.

Brandon spent the rest of the night at her bedside, returning to his haven with the dawn. He expected her gone when he awoke, but she was sitting in his library. Chase wasn't sure which one of them was the more startled. He stopped short when he saw her, and she gasped when she spotted him in the doorway. Her eyes flew to the window, apparently only then taking notice of the twilight outside. Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

She broke the silence first. "Good evening." She set aside the book she held—an original portfolio of Christopher Marley's works published in 1612—and looked almost guiltily at him from where she sat. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched this, but I couldn't resist. It's ... incredible." He noted she wore a pair of thin, latex gloves over her hands to protect the velum pages from skin oil. "I'll put it back."

"No, it's quite all right." Chase waved her back into the chair. "Books are made for reading, not gathering dust on shelves." He moved further into the room, stepping over to a locked, glass enclosed set of shelves. "You should've had Matthew unlock these for you. They are even more rare and precious."

"Is that a copy of _Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry_?" she asked, sitting forward on the chair. "The copies were of much lesser quality, but the Nazi's stole the original. Sadly, I don't think it was ever found."

Chase couldn't miss the expression of pure excitement filling her face. "It is _a_ copy, yes." Brandon hesitated, uncertain of her reaction if he were to admitted he'd stolen it from the Germans, but hadn't returned it to France. "I've been collecting for a very long time."

"Yes," Meredith breathed, awed, "you have. Matthew showed me around the house, and Dr. Gerhardt is right—it _is_ magnificent." Her eyes drifted around the library, resting on various paintings and items on display. "Aren't you afraid someone will break in and steal things?"

"No." Short and simple, that answer. "I expected you to have had Matthew drive you home before I woke. I hope he's not absented himself."

"I slept till noon," Meredith admitted, and Chase saw her blush. "He offered to take me home, but I saw all these books and I really wanted to look at them, since I didn't know if I'd ever get another chance. Then he fixed me lunch, and even called Grace for me so she wouldn't worry! I just ... lost track of time."

"Don't apologize." Brandon turned toward Meredith, smiling. "I'm pleased you stayed. I have the pleasure of your company, and can see you safely home as I promised last night."

The mention of the previous night froze her expression. Her eyes widened as everything apparently came rushing back to her. "Oh... yes. Last night." The tone was hollow, haunted, as he saw recollection fill her eyes. "Poor Anne." The sadness was palpable.

"Forgive me," Chase said, moving to kneel in front of the chair. "I didn't mean to distress you." His eyes sought hers, and he willed the pain she felt to ease. "Please, let me have Matthew prepare you dinner before you go home. It's the least I can do to make up for my crassness."

Chase saw her hesitation, but slowly a small smile curved her lips. "Were all Henry's courtiers as gallant as you?" she asked him. "If so, the ladies didn't stand a chance."

Brandon laughed. "I fear most of them were base knaves compared to me."

"So modest!" But Meredith continued to smile. They were of a level with one another, and he gazed into her eyes. They were bright, glistening in the light of his library, the color more green than gold. Finally, she looked down at the book in her hands. "You make me feel—" She stopped, apparently unable to find the correct word.

"Special," Chase supplied. "Every gentleman should make a lady feel special." He reached for one of her hands, lifting it to his lips—stopping when he saw she still wore the latex gloves. "Such smooth skin you have, my dear."

"The better to not ruin your priceless books with." The parody of a line from _Little Red Riding Hood_ brought laughter to them both.

Brandon notified Matthew he would be having a guest for dinner, then personally unlocked the glass-fronted bookshelf for Meredith. As a student of history, he knew she would appreciate the books and portfolios stored within. Some volumes literally took her breath away. Chase heard her heart beat increase as she touched illuminated manuscripts from the 8th and 9th Century. He showed her actual weapons which once belonged to Richard III and Henry VII. Of the more priceless items, he let her try on jewels once belonging to beautiful women throughout history, and admired how they looked around her neck.

All too soon they retired to the dining room for a delicious meal of roasted chicken, fingerling potatoes, glazed carrots and freshly baked yeast rolls. Meredith seemed totally under the spell of Brandon and his house. She was awed by the sheer magnificence of his collection, which made it all the easier for Chase to worm his way into her confidence. Over dessert, Meredith told him about the problem she had with Deirdre Varnell.

"...turned up about six months after Aunt Lurleen died, saying she was Robert Dillman's granddaughter. That was my aunt's youngest brother. He was disowned, but I don't know why. My aunt refused to discuss it." Meredith stopped, taking a bite of chocolate mousse. "She lives in Florida and isn't very nice. When she came here to file the motion, she told Grace to get her black ass out of _her_ house, and used the "N" word a lot."

The distress in Meredith's tone of voice was thick enough to cut with a knife. Brandon made up his mind to find out everything he could about this Deirdre Varnell, and to make it worth her while to drop the case. Chase suspected Varnell would take cold, hard cash rather than wait months, possibly years, for a settlement. There would also be court costs, lawyer fees, death duties—all to come out of the estate. He was pretty sure the Varnell woman would be more than willing to take the money and run.

Chase could tell the old house meant a lot to Meredith; the sorrow in her expression when she said she'd probably lose it made him positively furious at Varnell's temerity.

They lingered at the table until Meredith regretfully said she should get home. Grace would worry, and she needed to apologize to the Sisters at St. Vincent Mission for missing her volunteer day. Brandon was just as reluctant to see her leave, but honored his promise. He had an obligation to Pam, and there was no way he could ask Meredith to join him at the bar. So it was that he put Meredith into the Town Car with Matthew at the wheel, giving his manservant orders to make certain Meredith's house was safe before he left.

As for himself, once he saw Meredith off, he went into his office, standing at the French doors to watch the taillights disappear into the night. Stepping outside, Brandon savored the night. Beyond the terrace, Cross Lake was an inky blackness broken only by street lamps on the I-220 bridge. Farther to the southeast, the sky over Shreveport glowed as city lights reflected on gathering clouds. There would be rain before morning; weathermen predicted precipitation most of the week. Temperatures were expected to dip into the low 30s until New Years Eve.

For the moment, however, the night was cold and crisp, though slightly humid. Fine for a motorcycle ride to _Fangtasia._ He didn't wear a helmet, letting his hair fly freely in the wind. As fast as he went, he couldn't escape the sheer thrill of the hunt.

Heads turned as he entered the bar. His tight, black leather pants and sleeveless vest caused quite a stir. Pam's brows lifted as he approached her chair beside the one where Northman usually sat. She was the epitome of vampire lust in a figure hugging black leather bustier, tight black glove leather pants laced up the sides and spike-heeled boots. Long, black leather gloves encased her hands and arms. A black leather cape lined with blood-red silk fastened around her neck, falling down her back nearly to the floor. Hair and make up were straight out of a _Dracula_ film. Judging from the gaggle of pale-faced boys drooling around her feet, Pam was the epitome of a horny Goth-boy's wet dream.

Brandon paused, smirking at the scenario Pam presented. An eyebrow lifted in question as Pam placed her foot on one boy's shoulder, giving him a shove backwards. "Go. Away. Now." Her voice was a command. They scrambled over themselves to do her bidding, which amused her.

She motioned Chase forward, a smirk on her lips. "So. Is that a woody you're sporting, or did you happen to find someone's rolled up socks?"

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Just to set the story straight: the mention of "Eric/Sookie" was not added to the summary in order to trick people into reading the story. It was put there because Eric and Sookie play a larger part in later chapters. That's why it says "OC/OC, Some E/S." This isn't totally an Eric/Sookie story, but they play an important part. You all just haven't gotten there, yet. :)


	10. Star in the East

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 10****: ****Star in the East**

"_Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, odours of Eden, and offerings divine, gems from the mountain, and pearls from the ocean, myrrh from the forest and gold from the mine?"_—Anonymous

Theme music faded out as the smiling face of a news anchorman appeared. "Good evening and welcome to KTAL's News at Six. I'm Matt Tobin, and this is Diane Watts. Our top story tonight—the body of a woman was discovered earlier today near Coushatta in Red River Parish." Handsome, well-dressed, Tobin's face was appropriately serious as he read from the paper in his hands. "Emergency Service dispatcher Terry Metzler answered the 911 call from Ted Seward when the teenager found what he _thought_ was a discarded store mannequin."

The lovely woman beside him took over the report. "The call came around ten this morning." An inset of a wooded area cordoned off with yellow police tape popped up behind the reporters. "Deputies found the badly decomposed body in an illegal dumping site approximately twenty feet downstream from the Windham Road bridge. Investigators are still at the scene searching for clues to the woman's identity."

Back to Tobin. "According to the Red River Parish Medical Examiner, John Gray, condition of the body will make identification difficult. Investigators told reporters it was likely the Jane Doe was killed elsewhere, then dumped next to Sawtooth Creek. As yet, there's been no word on cause of death. We'll have more on this during the Nightly News at Eleven. Diane?"

"Here in Shreveport, Police Chief H. L. Whitehorn held a press conference this afternoon regarding the so-called 'Vampire Killer' case. Channel 6's Kathy Houghton was present, and she'll have a full report for us later in our newscast. To date, four women have been murdered in Shreveport, and one in Bossier City. Police are urging women to exercise extreme caution when going about their daily routine. Matt?"

"Later in our broadcast, we'll tell you ten ways to protect yourself. Next up, Riley Scott with Sports and Chad Markey with Action Weather 6—when we return after these words from our sponsor."

Chase pressed a button on the remote and the TV went dark. Climbing out of his king-sized bed, he stretched and headed into the bathroom. The mirror showed him paler than usual; he would need to feed from a live donor soon. Spray from the triple-headed shower felt wonderful. He let hot water pour over him while he pondered the news broadcast.

He wasn't surprised someone found Viola's body. That was bound to happen sooner or later. There was nothing to connect her to _Fangtasia_ other than her bachelorette party. Northman had already taken care of that with his initial statement. Finding her identity would take time, even with fingerprints and dental records. Cause of death?—harder to determine since animals had probably been at the body. All things considered, Chase wasn't very worried about Viola, he was much more concerned with Anne Lawton.

_Too many unanswered questions._

Wrapping a towel around his waist, Chase went about selecting clothes to wear for the candlelight memorial. It hadn't taken Anne's fellow students long to arrange a vigil for her. Meredith had told him about the service the night before when he dropped by her house to make certain she was all right. Black would be suitable, of course, but should he wear bar clothes or something more formal**?** In the end he settled on a combination: black leather pants and vest, a black silk shirt. A perfect foil for his pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes.

He drove the Viper. Sleek and smooth, it was a streak of shadow on the highway. Black and silver, the sporty 600 horsepower vehicle ate up the distance between his house and the Cedar Grove area where Meredith lived. He pulled up in front of the iron gate, parking the Viper on the street. Chase pressed a button, and a loud beep announced the alarm was armed and ready to betray anyone who dared stray too close.

Grace answered the door, telling him Meredith would be ready shortly. The older woman eyed Chase suspiciously, physically blocking the door. Apparently, she didn't realize Brandon couldn't enter without an invitation. He could've glamoured Grace, but that proved unnecessary since Meredith arrived within moments.

"Won't you please come in?"

Chase nodded. Grace glared. Meredith smiled.

The house wasn't quite as run down inside as out, though it definitely needed work. It was clean and neat, if not something straight out of _Southern Living_. Oriental styled carpets were attractive, though faded, frayed and threadbare in places. The furniture was an odd mixture of antique and modern, with a few good pieces Chase recognized as 18th Century Chippendale and Sheraton. With some paint and new wallpaper, the house could easily be restored to its former glory.

Meredith led him into the library, asking him to please wait while she finished getting ready. A fire burned brightly in the hearth and the room smelled of parchment, tobacco and leather. Chase sat in one of the Queen Anne chairs—replicas, not originals—and looked around. Not a particularly large room, it was nevertheless comfortable and attractive. A desk between floor-to-ceiling windows held a desktop computer which Chase assumed belonged to Meredith. Sadly, the shelves themselves were only about half filled with books.

When Meredith returned, she was wearing a long, black dress which reminded Chase of Goth girls at the bar. It fit her figure nicely, showing more curves than he originally noticed. Her face was devoid of make-up, and though her skin was fair, it was nowhere near as death-pale most Goths affected. Her color was natural: lips dark rose, cheeks pinked, eyes large and deep set. There was something about the dress that reminded Chase of bygone eras, though the style suited her. To protect her from the cold, she wore a black coat, gloves and knitted hat.

Grace stood near the door, watching Chase with an expression which plainly said 'I don't trust you, vampire.' "You be careful, Miss Merry."

When they reached the street, Chase saw Meredith's eyes widen when she saw the Viper. "That's a fabulous car." Her voice was filled with awe, which made Brandon smile. He opened the door for her, helping her slip into the passenger seat and fasten the seat belt. Closing her door, he made his way around to the driver's side, pausing when his ears caught the sound of voices. Chase peered around, honing in on the shadows beneath the bridge.

With the weather improved, denizens emerged from under the overpass to gather around the old 50-gallon drum. Flames flickered from a fire, outlining two figures. Chase couldn't recognize either of them, nor could he hear everything they said. All he caught was mention of a dumpster—which in their case could mean anything. Still, when he got into the car, he made a U-turn and cruised slowly beneath the bridge. Two more men had joined the others, and Chase had no way of knowing which two were the ones he'd overheard.

The memorial was well-attended; more than a hundred people gathered in Hargrove Amphitheater. Chase spotted Helga Gerhardt sitting with a few students who'd performed at the madrigal dinner. Meredith was a speaker, her voice quavery as tears made her eyes glisten. Several others spoke, including Anne's brother who was down from Nashville. Brandon was surprised to see the young man sitting beside Tia Dumayne, a female vampire he recognized as a visitor to New Orleans just before Katrina struck. He acknowledged her with a nod, making a mental note to meet with her after the ceremony.

The memorial ended after an hour or so. Meredith sang _Kýrie, Eléison_ accompanied by a young woman on the flute. It was hauntingly beautiful, and Chase heard muffled weeping. He made his way over to where Meredith stood with Helga, Anne's brother and Tia Dumayne, arriving in time to hear them discussing arrangements for Anne's burial.

"...as soon as it's released," the brother said. "She'll be interred at Bellewood Cemetery with the rest of the family." Chase remained quiet until the young man finished speaking. Tia Dumayne cast her eyes to Brandon, nodding in recognition. "Good evening, sir." A hand was thrust toward Chase. "I'm Travis Lawton, Anne's brother."

"Chase Brandon. My condolences for your loss."

"And this's—"

"We have already met." Tia's smooth, silky voice drew everyone's attention. "I was visiting New Orleans before the storm. Ah, such tragedy. I heard I was lucky to have escaped." Her accent was the languid, sultry sound of South America. "It is nice to find you in good health."

Chase felt her dark eyes rake over him, and remembered how Sophie Anne had been quite taken with the raven-haired beauty. "And you, as well." He stepped closer to Meredith, who seemed quite oblivious to the faint tension beneath the surface pleasantries.

The crowd around them began to dissipate. Finally, Helga said, "We should probably move this party to _Fangtasia_." She looked to Chase for confirmation, something wary in her eyes.

"Probably a good idea—" Chase began, but was interrupted by Tia Dumayne.

"Sí, I am most anxious to meet with your Sheriff. I have heard much about him, and of these horrible murders. Very bad, that, but it is not the first time, no? Was there not similar deaths in ... ah, where was it?" She looked thoughtful for several moments, then shook her head. "I do not recall, but I will think on this."

So it was decided everyone would head over to the bar. Meredith was very quiet on the walk back to Chase's car. He thought it might be reaction to the memorial, but she seemed more worried than sad. Finally, Brandon stopped walking and turned her toward him.

"You need never worry about anything when you're with me," he said firmly. "You have my word on that, Meredith."

"I know, but—" Her lips pressed together. "I've never been to a vampire bar. It sounds kind of ... scary."

Chase chuckled. "It's really not. Just a lot of Gothlings and wannabe vampires hanging around us. Our Sheriff is very careful not to let anything happen to our patrons."

"What about that girl?—the one who's missing. Didn't she go to _Fangtasia_ before she disappeared?"

Meredith had him there. He couldn't tell her the truth, so settled on an evasion. "We don't know what happened to her after she left." He took her shoulders in both his hands. "Meredith, I give you my word it's safe. Helga will be there, and you met Pam the other night. If anyone bothers you, just let any of us know."

It took another moment or two for Meredith to nod. "All right." She looked up at Chase, her expression trusting. "I admit I'm curious. Anne talked about it a lot."

Brandon didn't react, but he'd had no idea the latest victim had been to _Fangtasia_. So, not only was her brother associated with a vampire, but the girl herself had frequented a vampire bar. More and more interesting. He made another mental note to consult with Menéndez on this latest information.

The bar was fairly crowded. The dance floor was filled with black-clad bodies gyrating and thrusting to the pounding pulse of loud music. Tonight was a live band—rather, an _undead_ band—known as _Sibyl_. The female singer wailed into the microphone, her voice mesmerizing to the dancers. Her songs were touted as prophesies by her fans, but Chase found them on the boring side. He much preferred Meredith's singing, but that would never do for a bar.

He saw Meredith wince as they entered, and immediately took her hand to thread it through his arm. "It's louder with a live band," he explained, carefully negotiating them through the tables to a booth in the back where Pam sat. It was a little quieter behind the speakers. "Evening," he greeted the Sheriff _pro tem_. "You remember Meredith."

The human girl was given a long, assessing look, then Pam nodded. "I do. Sit." She made room beside her in the booth. "I know Helga, but you two—?" She gave Chase a glance which begged an introduction.

"Tia Dumayne, Travis Lawton," Brandon told Pam. "He's Anne Lawton's brother from Nashville. Miss Dumayne—"

"Pleased to meet you, _Señorita_." Chase watched TIA's sloe eyes roam over Pam with obvious interest. "I was not aware a Sheriff could be so _my bonito_." She smiled, sliding into the booth on Pam's other side.

Helga nodded to Chase, meaning for him to sit next to Meredith. "If you will excuse me, I see Ingrid has returned from her trip." She nodded respectfully to Pam, then scooted off to greet her lover.

The waitress took everyone's order as Pam turned her attention to TIA. "The Sheriff is visiting His Majesty at the moment. I'm merely babysitting his domain." She turned to Travis Lawton, giving the young man an assessing gaze. "Condolences on your recent loss." It wasn't said with any particular sadness; in fact, it was stated without much emotion at all.

Meredith looked at Travis, offering, "The police are doing everything they can to find her killer."

"Or, killers." That was Pam. "The Sheriff is most anxious to put an end to these murders. Have you spoken with the police?"

"They asked me a few questions about Anne's friends, if she had any enemies, that kind of thing," was the answer. Travis seemed very aware of his role in vampire society, behaving in a very appropriate manner. "Her Majesty, the Queen of Tennessee sent Ms. Dumayne with me—" He stopped, ducking his head. "I'm sorry. It's not my place to speak of this."

Chase saw Pam's eyebrows lift. "Very well." A glance at Chase, then full attention on TIA. "Are you representing Her Majesty, then?"

"Only in the most perfunctory manner, Señorita Pam. Her Majesty wishes only to be of service to your Sheriff in such a time of need." Her dark eyes slid over to Chase, then rested momentarily on Meredith. "Her Majesty was most upset when one of her human partners suffered such a familial loss. She offers what help she can to solve these crimes."

"I'll see the Sheriff is made aware of Her Majesty's kindness. In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy what amenities we have to offer."

"We are only here until the police release poor Anne's body. Travis will accompany his sister home."

That seemed to be that as far as conversation went. The waitress delivered drinks to Pam's table: three True Bloods, one whiskey sour, one white wine. A few other Shreveport vampires dropped by the table to meet the newcomer. TIA took Travis out on the dance floor. Meredith sat quietly between Pam and Chase, sipping her wine, looking subdued. Brandon kept a close eye on her; he planned to take her out of the bar the moment she looked uncomfortable.

Finally, Meredith indicated she wanted to explore the gift shop. Chase figured this meant she was about ready to leave, since the shop was near the front exit. She looked tired, her face drawn. A few trinkets in the shop caught her attention: a gold filigree cross, a poison ring, a black velvet choker with a cameo. She looked over ruby glass goblets, engraved medallions and books of vampire lore. Of course, none of these things were expensive, not even the jewelry.

Chase insisted on buying Meredith something to commemorate her first visit to _Fangtasia_, though she protested. She finally agreed on a slender volume of poetry by Soja Morrison. Meredith explained she'd attended a lecture by Ms. Morrison last semester, and was struck by the beauty of her words. Since Chase wasn't familiar with the woman's work, he promised she could read some to him sometime soon.

"She's amazing." Meredith expounded about the poetess, telling Chase about meeting the woman after the lecture. She lives with a vampire in Salem, Massachusetts, and her poetry is the most beautiful tribute to him."

Chase listened, but allowed some of his attention to wander. It wasn't a far walk to his car; just across the street and half a block down. Brandon kept his arm linked with Meredith's, and she didn't complain. He felt rather pleased with himself. It wouldn't be too much longer before he'd bring her to his bed, and taste her sweetness. At the moment, it was all he could do to restrain himself from taking her into the shadows and—

The noise was familiar. An old engine, not well tuned. Chase looked around, spotting a dark van cruising through _Fangtasia's_ public parking lot. It was three rows back from the street, going slow. It could be as innocent as the occupants looking for a parking place, but something just didn't feel right. Meredith continued to chat as Brandon's eyes followed the van. There were two men inside: one driver, one passenger. No windows on the sides nor in the back doors. It was going very slow, pulling out onto the side street, turning away from the bar, disappearing into the neighborhood beyond.

They reached the Viper moments later. Once more Chase helped Meredith into her seat, then went to the driver's side. His preternatural hearing caught the sound of the same engine as the van returned to the parking lot. Brandon slid into the car, but didn't immediately start the car. Instead, he watched, every nerve in his body alert. There was something very sinister about those two men and that old van.

"Is something wrong?"

Meredith's voice caught him unawares, and he glanced over at her. "I'm not sure."

There was a hint of panic in her voice the next time she spoke. "What's the matter?"

Chase didn't reply. He'd caught sight of the van cruising along the street in front of _Fangtasia_. Two girls were leaving the bar accompanied by Greg. The van sped up as it got closer, passing the bar and continuing southward. Unfortunately, Chase couldn't see whether it turned or not.

When Greg returned from walking the girls to their car, Chase started his car and caught the young bouncer as he drew even with the exit. In quick words, Brandon described what he'd witnessed, telling Greg to keep a close eye on things. As he left the parking lot, he made a phone call to Pam, letting her know what he'd just told Greg. It might be a coincidence, it might not, but Chase wasn't taking any chances. Northman would stake him if he let a murder take place at or near _Fangtasia_.

Bad enough the police would soon identify the body found down near Coushatta. No sense taking any more chances.

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thanks to everyone for all the great reviews, and for pointing out what you like (and didn't like) about the story. Updates may slow down a little, depending upon how the next few chapters work. Don't worry, though, I'm not going to leave everyone hanging. I'm the type of author who tries desperately to finish what I start.


	11. Coventry Carol

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 11****: ****Coventry Carol**

"_That woe is me, poor Child for Thee! And ever mourn and sigh, For thy parting neither say nor sing; Bye, bye, lully, lullay."—Written down by Robert Croo, c.1534_

Northman and the Stackhouse girl showed up at _Fangtasia_ the following evening. Neither of them looked particularly refreshed after spending four days with His Majesty in Las Vegas. They were greeted with mixed emotions: relief from Pam, nonchalance from Chase, eagerness from Menéndez. The first thing the Viking did was order the three of them and Sookie into his office. Once they were settled, Northman studied some papers on his desk, leaving everyone else to sit in silence, waiting.

Finally, "Another murder, the victim definitely associated with a vampire."

Julio spoke up. "I have procured information regarding some of the earlier victims. Karen Collins. The owner of _Belle's_ has a silent partner—a vampire who was fond of her dancing. Before Katrina destroyed New Orleans, Ellen Hatcher was a maid who worked for none other than the late Sophie Anne LaClerq." He seemed inordinately pleased with himself. "The latest victim's father is a trusted business partner with Her Majesty of Tennessee."

"So, now we know we know—" Eric began.

"—and knowing is half the battle." Pam's voice was sarcastic, as usual. "In this case, knowing is _way less_ than half of anything. All we really know is the victims have connections to vampires. We don't have any concrete info on who's behind this."

"Except for Brandon's van." Menéndez interjected with a degree of sarcasm. "We should obviously spend our time watching for this mysterious van, no?" The sneer was implied if not expressed on his face.

Chase refused to rise to the bait. "I saw that van minutes after I found the body," he stated flatly, "and it was cruising _Fangtasia's_ parking lot. I'd say that's suspicious enough to bear investigation."

"And your proof is the sound of an engine?" Julio sounded skeptical. "You saw nothing of the men inside, nor do you have a license number. The police need something more substantial than your gut fe—"

"Enough." Northman's expression was cold; easy to see he was in no mood for bickering. "If Brandon says the van is worth investigating, then it is. Since you feel the police won't be interested, I will have _my_ people handle this." The Sheriff was adamant. "If nothing else, perhaps we will scare these killers away from my bar." The Viking fixed Menéndez with his steely eyes. "I understand the body found near Coushatta was identified?"

"Viola Adams." Julio now sounded flat, like the Sheriff had knocked the wind from his sails. "It was confirmed yesterday." The detective frowned. "Because the body was so decomposed, it was nearly impossible for the Medical Examiner to determine cause of death," he told them, "however, the autopsy revealed very little blood remained in her body. There is supposition she might have been the first murder victim, but—" His shoulders lifted. "—we do not know why she was dumped so far from here. All the other victims have been easy to find."

Chase saw the Stackhouse girl's eyes dart to Northman, and he waited for her to say something stupid. A icy glance from the Viking seemed to bring her to her senses, and she occupied herself by braiding her ponytail. Thankfully, that brief exchange was lost to the detective.

"Interesting." Northman nodded. "Could be her death isn't related to the others." The Viking steepled his fingers in front of himself, a gesture Chase recognized as a prelude to conjecture. "What _I_ find most curious is how the perpetrator seems to know so much about vampires and their associates. We are not usually so forthcoming with our business affairs."

Chase pondered Northman's comment, a finger tapping his lower lip. The Viking had an excellent point. Whereas one might assume someone leaving _Fangtasia_ consorted with vampires, it wasn't so easy to find out a strip club's silent partner preferred a specific dancer. And, how would an ordinary person find out a systems analyst working in Shreveport was associated with a vampire from Gulfport? Or, discover the daughter of a man partnered with the Queen of Tennessee was attended Centenary College?

Those associations would be known only by a trusted few: long-time retainers, business associates, investors. Members of the human's family might not even be told, or if they were, would be warned not to speak openly of such. A vampire might share things with a lover or their man of business, but by and large, vampires were far too security conscious to be free with their personal information.

_Curious how they seem to know so much about powerful vampires and their human associates._

"Anyone bothered to check if there've been similar deaths elsewhere?" This from Pam.

"An excellent suggestion." To the detective. "Have Compton do a search. Return when you have the information." Northman dismissed Menéndez with a wave of his hand.

Once the detective left, the Viking moved on to other business, asking Chase what plans had been made for security on New Year's Eve. Brandon outlined the procedures he set up, which included hiring a few of Alcide's pack. The unofficial truce between the Vampires and Weres allowed for occasional cooperation, but Chase was fairly certain the wolves would honor the contract he negotiated. The particular men he hired were dependable and level-headed; he had Alcide's word they'd conduct themselves appropriately. Other security measures were already in place: bouncers, hidden cameras, escorts for patrons, roving patrols of both parking lots.

"The police promised to patrol our area as often possible, but that night is usually busy." Chase concluded his report, handing Northman a written copy of everything he just explained. "I don't anticipate problems, but if something occurs, we'll be ready."

"Good." Northman discussed entertainment with Pam, then told his childe to head out front.

When Chase rose to follow her, the Viking waved him back down. Curious, Brandon complied, studying Northman closely. The Stackhouse girl seemed suddenly uncomfortable, glancing from one to the other of them. Chase said nothing; this was Eric's show.

"Sookie will be making rounds with you, especially outside." It was not a request.

Chase looked at the girl sitting on the sofa. She didn't look particularly happy, more resigned. "Very well."

"I also want you to show her the overpass where you said you heard someone speak of dumpsters." Again, there was no argument from Brandon. Northman nodded at Sookie as if asking her to speak.

The Stackhouse girl glanced at Chase, demeanor more subdued than usual. When she spoke, her soft, Southern accent seemed quiet and respectful. "There wasn't much for me to do when Eric was talking to the King, so I started reading those reports Menéndez gave him." She paused, pressing her lips together a moment, then added, "In at least two cases witnesses reported seeing homeless men—behind Sears and at the convenience store."

Chase listened, remembering mention of bums. "You think they have something to do with the murders?"

"I'm not sure, but Eric said you heard someone say 'dumpsters' as your drove through a place where the homeless hang out." She shrugged one shoulder. "I thought I'd at least give a listen and maybe pick up something." Another pause. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

All things considered, Brandon had to admit it was worth a try. "Very well," he agreed. "The bridge is several blocks west. Do you want to walk or drive?"

She looked at the Viking, expression uncertain. "Drive." Northman's voice was firm, but softened as he added, "You will be safe with Brandon."

The Stackhouse girl didn't look particularly convinced, but nodded her acceptance of the Viking's will. "Just tell me when you're ready to go."

She was, at least, dressed appropriately: dark blue sweater and pants, black trench coat, black shoes. The only lightness about her was her face and hair, but even they wouldn't be much of a problem. The moon was past full, but still bright enough to cast deep shadows.

"As you wish." Chase stood up again. "I'll make my first outside round when I leave here," he told her, nodding to the door. "After you, Miss Stackhouse."

He lead her through the back to the employee exit, then outside. The weather cooperated; no rain, just a chill breeze. She was quiet as they walked through the rear parking lot, stiffening as Chase paused to check the dumpster as was his habit of late. It was, thankfully, devoid of dead bodies. Indicating they should proceed across the street to the public parking area, Brandon guided the girl with a hand at her elbow. She didn't react adversely, though Chase heard a soft gasp of surprise.

"Don't worry," he told her, "I already ate dinner." The humor eased the tension, and he felt her relax.

The public parking lot was nearly full, only a few empty spaces. Chase and his companion strolled almost casually down the rows of cars, finding only a couple making out inside one vehicle. They passed one of the bouncers returning to the bar after escorting a young lady to her car. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—until they reached the farthest row. Chase abruptly stopped, eyeing a faded black, Ford Econoline van. No expert on vans, he placed the year sometime in the mid-80s. Without hearing the engine, Chase couldn't be certain it was the same van he'd seen twice. Still, it was worth a closer inspection.

Walking around the van, Brandon opened up his preternatural senses. There was a clicking noise as the engine cooled. It was locked, and he couldn't see much through the front windows because of a solid partition between front and back. He smelled exhaust and the faint scent of burning oil from the front, but he couldn't detect much from the sides or back. The odor of stale sweat and unwashed bodies mingled with other less definable smells. He _thought_ he caught the tangy scent of blood, but wasn't certain enough to risk breaking into the van.

In the meantime, the Stackhouse girl followed Chase, saying nothing. He saw her pull out a small pad and a pen from her coat pocket, figuring she was writing down the license number. Only there wasn't a _real_ plate, just a temporary cardboard placards. She nonetheless jotted down the number, noting the temp tag was issued in Florida. Neither she nor Chase could find a dealer sticker nor anything else to indicate where in Florida.

As if by mutual agreement, he and the Sookie headed back to the bar.

Inside _Fangtasia_ Chase went to each of the bouncers, while Sookie headed straight for Northman's office. He assumed she was informing the Viking about what they found in the parking lot. Brandon told Greg to pass the word amongst the other security: keep an eye out for anything strange, especially if it involved two men. He also told Greg to work the outside front, and have another bouncer keep an eye on the van. Brandon was to be informed immediately if they saw anyone go to the vehicle—especially if it was two men and a woman.

Pam was lounging on the dais, sprawled in a smaller, plainer version of Northman's throne. Her usual fan bois sat or stood near, waiting to fulfill her every desire. One of them was kneeling on hands and knees, his back serving as a table for her drink. Chase's eyebrows lifted as he approached, a smirk on his lips. Pam lifted her goblet of True Blood in a toast to him, her face a mask of aloofness as she played the part of a bored vampire. Chase stepped onto the dais, perching on the arm of her chair. Leaning close to her ear, he pretended to kiss her bared shoulder. Instead, he whispered what he'd and the Stackhouse girl found in the parking lot.

Pam's eyes immediately scanned the bar, but it was impossible to know which men were from the van. The dance floor was full of gyrating people, the colored lights and strobe effects distorted features. Booths and tables were dimly lit, and those seated at the bar had their backs turned toward Pam and Chase. Unlikely the killers (if the men in the van were the killers) would announce themselves by attacking anyone in the bar.

"Like the proverbial needle." Pam scowled, kicking one of her loyal sycophants, making him stop polishing her boot. "All of you—go. You bore me." They reluctantly left, even her human table. "There are times I wish—"

"—wish what, my cynical childe?" Northman interrupted Pam with a sardonic twist of his lips. The Viking sat on his throne, eyes scanning the full bar like a king surveying his kingdom. Sookie stood beside him, his hand stroking her arm possessively. Chase watched, eyes narrowed slightly as Eric made a blatant display of his "affection" for the human girl. Unusual behavior for Northman, who was generally more discreet in public. Now he made it obvious to anyone who glanced his way that the girl was his property.

Pam, too, noticed the change in her sire's behavior, watching him touch, pet and generally show the world he was possessive of the girl. Her brows lifted in mild surprise.

"When do you plan to have 'Property of Eric' tattooed on her ass?" Pam asked with a smirk. "I _definitely_ want to see _that_." She deliberately licked her lips in a suggestive manner.

Pam's remark had the desired affect. Chase watched Sookie's cheeks turn bright red as Northman laughed. The Viking upped the ante by pulling her across his lap and kissing her passionately. His hands stayed _almost_ proper when they stroked her.

"Well, _that's_ subtle." Pam again. She smirked, turning her attention back to the crowd.

As usual, several fangbangers were gathered near the dais. Some were tourists, others bar regulars. A few looked shocked at the open display of fangs on the Viking. Chase eyed them all, keeping a careful watch on their expressions, body language, attitude—anything which might give him a clue to their thoughts. Other than the tourists, most of them acted and dressed similarly, conforming to non-conformity. Any one of them could be the killer, or the killer's accomplice.

It wasn't long before Chase heard Sookie give a soft gasp. He instantly focused on the girl. She had her face buried against Northman's chest, one of her hands clenched into a tight fist. Every line of her body screamed tension. Chase saw her stiffen in Eric's embrace, and her lips press into a thin line. Her mouth moved against the Viking's ear, but Brandon couldn't catch exactly what was said.

Northman abruptly stood, still cradling Sookie against him. In a blur of motion, he was off the dais, heading toward his office. Pam exchanged a startled glance at Chase. In seconds she was following the Sheriff.

Brandon was slower to react, but not for of a lack of wit. He scanned the crowd, a mix of men and women, some young, some older. He wasn't sure for what he searched, but knew something had upset the Stackhouse girl. It was hard to see each individual present, especially with everyone in motion. People danced, moved from booth to booth, visited the gift shop and left the bar.

He cut through the crowd like a sword through flesh, studying faces as he passed. He met eyes directly, stone cold expression disturbing most. Curious tourists abruptly found the gift shop a lot more interesting. Fangbangers stepped out of his path, instinctively knowing this was not time to approach him. The wait staff took one look and avoided him. Vampire wannabes suddenly didn't want to be vampires that badly.

Chase saw no bums or homeless men amongst the patrons. No one acted suspicious or strange—unless he considered their reaction to his icy stare. He smelled their sweat, their lusts, their fear and their perfumes, but no blood. He was a wolf amidst sheep, a hunter on the prowl with no quarry in sight.

With a last glance, Chase turned toward the Sheriff's office. There was no way to find his prey, though he felt certain he was close. Somewhere amongst that sea of humanity was someone different from everyone else. Someone with a taste for blood, who wasn't a vampire. Someone whose thoughts had terrified Northman's telepathic lover. Someone Brandon very much wanted to find before another innocent woman died.

Being associated with vampires certainly had its share of danger, but it should never be a death sentence.

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thanks for the reviews. Another update soon.


	12. Down in Yon Forest

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 12****: ****Down in Yon Forest**

"_Down in that hall there lay a bed; The bells of Paradise I heard them ring: Voices of heaven here in my head; The bells of Paradise I heard them ring: All scarlet the cover that over it spread—and I love my Lord Jesus above anything."—Traditional English Carol_

Northman's privacy be damned, neither Pam nor Chase bothered to knock. Brandon entered after Pam, his attention instantly focused on the leather sofa against the far wall where the Viking cradled Sookie against his chest. The fingers of one hand gently stroked her hair while the other supported her back. The girl had her arms wrapped tightly around Eric's neck, face buried against his shoulder. Both Pam and Brandon heard what they first thought was laughter, but realized was really choked sobs.

Northman fixed them both with an icy, steel-blue glare. "Leave." Neither moved. "Now." His eyes narrowed at the blatant disregard of his order.

"You know I'd love to obey, Eric, but I'm not moving until you tell me what's going on." Pam folded her arms over her chest in punctuation to her words, nodding toward Sookie. "I've seen her near death and itched to slap her for her disobedience. I've seen her exhausted and pissed off—but I've _never_ seen her lose it like that. Give."

Chase, of course, couldn't say the same. He knew very little about the Stackhouse girl, save she seemed to a constant pain in the Sheriff's ass. He liked neither her holier-than-thou attitude nor how she undermined Northman's authority. Still, he'd been around enough authority figures in his 500-years to know better than remark upon it. Pam might get away with it because she was Eric's childe. He wisely kept his mouth shut, letting the stubborn set of his chin speak for him.

"You both know better than this. Get out before I—"

"Eric, stop." Sookie appeared shaken, but she was pulling herself together. "I'm all right, and this concerns—" Her voice faltered, but she straightened up, shifting away from Northman. "—concerns _all_ of us. They need to know what happened out there."

This piqued Chase's interest. He moved one of the chairs in front of the sofa for Pam, then one for himself. Once seated, his eyes never wavered from Sookie's tear-stained face. That she was more than distraught was obvious by her behavior. Though her crying had stopped, there was genuine fear in her eyes.

Brandon really wanted to know what she'd "heard" in the bar. He was, however, gentleman enough not to press her.

Pam, on the other hand, had no such qualms. "Were the bastards there?" It was a demand, not a question.

"Pam." Northman's voice was ice. "She will talk when she's ready, not before."

Chase made note of the Stackhouse girl's pale face and shaking hands. Rising, he went to the desk and picked up the phone. Pressing an in-house line, he ordered a bottle of fine brandy and one of Royal Blüd for the office. This gave time Sookie to further compose herself. Pam found a box of tissues, passing them to Sookie. By the time a waiter delivered the bottles, she was sitting beside the Sheriff. Chase poured the girl a brandy, and the vampires glasses of blood.

"Thank you." Her voice was steadier, less panic-stricken. Chase heard her breathing and heart rate slow to normal. Once she'd taken a couple sips of strong liquor, the color was back in her cheeks. "I'm all right," she told Eric, who had her pulled protectively close to him. "You don't have to hold me."

"I _like_ holding you."

"I think I'm going to throw up." Pam's expression was far from amused. "Just tell us what you heard, Sookie. You know we won't let anything happen to you."

There was, Chase assumed, an odd sort of friendship between Pam and the Stackhouse girl. At least it looked that way to him. Admittedly, he hadn't noticed it until recently, but the more he was around the two women, the more he could see a mutual respect in the way they acted around one another. He saw Sookie manage a smile at Pam, which was more than Northman did. He scowled at his childe, his eyes promising retribution.

"It was after Eric and I started making out." The voice was stronger, if slightly husky from the alcohol. "It's hard to hear individuals when there are so many in one place, but I can usually isolate thoughts when I concentrate." She glanced slyly up at Eric. "Unfortunately, I had ... distractions."

Northman beamed. Chase ignored him. Pam looked like she was going to be sick.

"Anyway, I was letting my mind wander, picking up snatches of thoughts here and there when something ... _hit_ me, for lack of a better word." Chase saw her physically shudder. "It came at me sideways and caught me off guard. Black, dark, terrifying—like plunging into an icy cold river of hot blood." She paused again, taking a deep breath, then exhaling slowly.

"At first there weren't words, just this thick, oily black that wrapped itself around me, pulled me down into ... someplace awful. I heard things—horrible, hateful things directed at all the vampires. It was worse than anything I _ever_ heard from the Fellowship." She shuddered again, apparently steeling herself against the fear with which her mental encounter left her. "Then I heard a single mind thinking what he did to _all_ vampire whores he got his hands on." A beat, then, "There were a _lot_ of them—and not just here. Other places."

Chase watched as Sookie took a final sip, then held out the glass. "More?" he offered.

"No, I've had enough." Chase took the glass, setting it on Northman's desk. After a moment, Sookie continued. "It was like falling into hell. The things he did to those women before he killed them—" Her lips pressed together. "He took his time with some of them. Others he killed quickly."

A moment passed, and Sookie met Chase's eyes. "He's going to kill again. Soon. Maybe tonight. I don't know who, but his thoughts were of a woman he's seen a few times. Walking. He and Reggie. That's who he forces to help him. They'll follow her and snatch her off the street. I don't know who she is, but he loathes her because she's sold herself to a vampire."

A moment passed, then, "He hypnotizes them. That's how he gets them to trust him. He learned how to manipulate people through hypnosis. His ... his mother—" She stopped. "That's when it ended. I don't know if he left, or just ... stopped thinking about it." She looked at Northman, then Chase. "I didn't see who it was."

There was complete silence when Sookie finished speaking. The only sound was the muffled pound of music from the bar, and her breathing. None of the vampires spoke for what seemed hours. Then Chase was up and out of the office, leaving three startled people in his wake.

Brandon didn't bother with the front door, instead flying out through the back door. A blur of motion, he was across the street into the public parking lot within seconds. It was as he feared: the van was gone. Drawn by the abrupt appearance of his boss, the bouncer assigned to watch the lot approached at a run. Chase heard him huffing and puffing, whirling on him with fangs bared. The young man skidded to a stop, a strangled scream in his throat. Brandon was on him in a heartbeat, hand grasping his throat, lifting him easily off the ground. He struggled, eyes bulging from their sockets, pure terror in his expression.

"Where did it go?" Chase demanded. "You were told to watch the van. Where. Did. It. Go?"

Gurgling noises came from the man's throat as he tried to answer. Chase shook him once, then suddenly threw him to the ground. The bouncer—no lightweight—grunted as he landed, sliding backwards from the force. Breathless, he tried to scramble away, but Chase advanced menacingly.

"When did it leave?" Brandon's voice was a bare whisper. His eyes glared at the man who scuttled sideways like a crab. "Answer me!"

"I d-don't know!" The response was a horrified whimper. The bouncer did his best to regain his feet, finally succeeding. Without another word, the young man ran. He didn't even stop for his own car, just ran down the street, disappearing into the night.

Brandon watched, the rage inside demanding he give chase, but he forced that instinct down. He was so furious he almost missed Pam's arrival. Chase whirled on her, poised for battle: fangs extended, fingers curled like talons, body crouched.

Pam appeared to have sense enough to stop where she stood. A hand went to her hip, and her head cocked to the side. Chase felt her eyes rake over him, saw her lips curl into a smirk. "Somehow I don't think he'll be back to pick up his paycheck."

Brandon scowled, a guttural growl escaping his throat. She stood her ground, eyes almost—but not quite—amused. Gradually, Chase began to release the rage, whirling back around to put his fist through the steel "exit" sign next to the back driveway. The sound of tearing metal split the night. Afterwards, Chase slowly turned around, eyeing Pam with a cold blue eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll pay for it," he snarled. A pause. "He didn't see them. He was told to watch, and he didn't. They escaped because of his ineptitude."

"Probably, but not necessarily." Pam walked over to the empty parking space, squatting down to peer at something on the gravel. "You were right about the van being old." She dipped two fingers into a dark stain on the ground; she lifted them, sniffed, then grinned. Her fangs gleamed white in the streetlight. "Oil leak. Quite a bad one—but I'm no expert." She looked up at Chase, a smirk on her lips. "You're the one with the Harley, you take a look." Obviously referencing a Harley-Davidson's tendency to _always_ leak oil.

Chase ignored the barb, kneeling beside her. It was oil, all right. A good bit of it. He looked closer, noting a few drops beyond the space. Straightening, he kept looking, finding more drops toward the exit. A whole trail of leaking oil lead out of the parking lot, turning onto a side street. Brandon followed them a short distance, stopping only when he realized he could easily see the spots, and recognize the particularly acrid odor of oil long-overdue for a change.

Turning back, he nodded toward _Fangtasia_. "Good find." This time Brandon actually smirked back at Pam. "Guess you're not just eye candy after all." He might pay for the jibe later, but right now, he didn't care.

They entered through the front, Chase pausing long enough to let Greg know what had happened. The young bouncer winced when he heard the story, and promised to make sure his friend understood the stress everyone was under. Northman and the Sookie were back on the dais; she was sitting on his lap, but it was more casual now. Chase saw she looked a lot less strained. He nodded, pausing to bow before approaching the Sheriff. Leaning close to Northman's ear, Brandon told him about the trail of oil.

Though his face didn't change expression, the Sheriff nodded. "You have permission to follow it—but do _nothing_ when you find the prey," he was ordered. "They must go to the human police for justice. They have not killed a vampire."

"No, just tried to frame us for multiple murders." That was Pam's comment as she flopped down in her own chair.

Northman turned his head toward her. "Human crime is not our jurisdiction. You will _all_ obey me in this."

Chase's lips thinned, but he gave his word. "Miss Stackhouse and I should go for our walk now," he told the Sheriff, but he was unprepared for the vehemence of Northman's response.

"No." Cold. Iron-clad. Glaring.

Chase straightened, his own eyes narrowed. "It was agreed upon—"

"That was _before_ Sookie was scared out of her wits. She will not leave my side."

"Eric, if I can help—"

Icy glare now turned on Sookie. "I _said_ no." Firm. "You will _also_ obey me, is that understood?"

Brandon could tell Sookie wasn't happy from the stubborn jut of her chin. Surely she wouldn't argue with Northman in front of everyone; that would certainly undermine the Sheriff's authority, making him an easy mark for vampires looking to discredit him.

"It will be as you wish, Sheriff." Chase bowed his head, turning on his heel and heading toward the storage area.

Opening his locker, Brandon removed his leather coat, hanging it inside. No need for an incumbrance when he broke his word to the Sheriff. He rifled through his locker, pausing when he came across a holstered, 9mm Glock-19. As old as he was, Chase really didn't need weapons, though he occasionally carried a stiletto he took from a New York gang member in the 50s. An elegant, slender blade as beautiful as it was deadly, it came in handy, even for a vampire. He put the Glock back, picking up the stiletto, debating on whether or not to take it with him.

"You can always let me carry it." Chase knew it was Sookie was behind him; he'd heard her approach, no matter how softly she walked.

"I don't think Northman will approve." Chase closed the locker, leaving the stiletto inside. He turned to face Sookie, frowning. "He told you to stay here."

"He told you the same thing." She looked up at Chase, lips pursed. "Look, I know you don't like me, but I _can_ help. I _want_ to help." She seemed to deliberate over something, then added, "I didn't tell you all everything."

The confession caught Chase by surprise. He looked at Sookie with narrowed eyes, waiting.

"The woman—" Chase heard her take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. "—the one he plans to kill. I'm not sure, but I thought he called her Mary."

His brows creased. "Mary?"

"Yes, only it sounded like _merry_, as in Merry Christm—"

Chase whirled about, re-opened his locker and took out the stiletto. "Here." He thrust it toward Sookie. "You do as I tell, no argument. Do I need to remind you that I won't live long if any harm comes to you?"

There was an urgency to Brandon's actions. He knew it was a risk taking Sookie along, but there was only one woman he knew with that name—and that monster could have her only over Chase's undead body. Sookie's gift would be of immense help in finding the killers, or Meredith if they'd already taken her. If he and Sookie got in trouble, Northman would know through his bond with Sookie. Chase was sure she, at least, would be rescued, if not himself.

They slipped out the back, pausing only long enough for Brandon to tell Sookie to climb onto his back. In such a manner, he carried her so they could move that much faster. Across Line Ave., through the parking lot and onto the side street in a blur of motion. Chase followed the still damp trail of oil on the brick surface, moving swiftly though the area was not well lit. Once beyond sight of the bar, he slowed, allowing Sookie—when _had_ he started thinking of her in first person?—to get down. She still couldn't move as fast as him, but she at least made an effort not to hold him back.

Twice he lost the trail but found it again. They followed a convoluted path which led past the rail yards and turned north. Chase slowed even more here, taking note of familiar looking rundown houses, abandoned industrial buildings and derelict ditches of stagnant water. Sookie kept her word, doing exactly as Brandon instructed.

It was only when they turned onto St. Vincent Ave. that a coldness gripped Chase. He suddenly knew exactly where they were—the homeless shelter was only a couple of blocks ahead on the right. Praying Meredith hadn't been helping there that night, he scooped Sookie into his arms and ran the two blocks in record time. Coming to a halt in front of the mission, he peered at the ground as he allowed the girl in his arms to stand on her own. It took a few minutes, but he located a pool of oil about halfway to the stop sign at the corner of 78th St.

Sookie apparently saw what he did. "Looks like they stopped here for a while."

"Probably waiting." Chase sounded distracted, as, indeed, he was. He turned back to the mission when he heard a car engine. One of the sisters he' recognized from last week was locking the mission doors as the other nun started a car.

"Come." He didn't give Sookie much of a choice, grasping her hand and almost dragging her back up the block. He skidded to a stop in the parking area beside the building, calling out, "Sister!"

The nun did what any self-respecting woman would do in a city besieged by a serial killer—which Chase might have realized had he stopped to think. He was, however, in too much of a hurry to think things through clearly.

"Easy, I'm not going to hur—" At first, Chase thought she might faint, but she was made of sterner stuff than that.

Mace stings—even if you _are_ a 500-year old vampire. It doesn't hamper breathing the way it does on humans, but makes seeing difficult for a few minutes. It took that time and more to calm both nuns. The Sister in front of Chase was backed up against the door, a silver rosary in one hand, mace in the other. Fortunately, Chase wasn't in range of the silver. The other nun locked the car doors and scrambled to dial her cell phone. Sookie was at the car window, pleading with her not to panic and definitely not to call the police.

By the time Brandon regained his sight, Sookie had at least managed to get both nuns to stop and listen as she explained they weren't there to hurt them. They only wanted information. The panic slowly ceased, although the one nun refused to leave the car, and still held up the cell phone as if threatening to call the police if Sookie didn't back away.

Someday Chase might look back on the situation with humor, but not at the moment. Once he backed away, the nun at the door stopped swinging her rosary long enough to listen. "Sister, we mean you no harm. I just want to know if Meredith Ward was here tonight."

Perhaps it was the urgency in Chase's voice which ultimately demanded a response. Color came back to her face, and she stepped forward. "Meredith? Why, yes, she was. Such a dear child. So dedicated."

"Is she still inside?" Chase asked, pointing to a lighted window on the second floor.

The nun turned to look, then shook her head. "No, Meredith left some time ago. One of the other volunteers is on duty tonight."

"Do you know if she was going straight home?"

"She usually does, but she didn't say anything to either Sister Mary Agnes or me."

Brandon was about to ask something more, but Sookie had moved up beside him. "Thank you, Sister. If you don't mind, I have a question—do you know anyone who drives an old, black van? Someone who comes into the mission regularly, perhaps?"

The nun looked thoughtful, then shook her head. "I have no idea what kind of vehicle that would be, child." She appeared to think hard, then added, "Brother Reginald might know. He does odd jobs for us, including keeping our car running."

"Brother Reginald?" This from Chase. "Is he inside?"

"No, he lives out by the airport, I believe, though I'm not sure where. He just shows up and asks for work."

"Do you have a last name?"

"No, Reggie's is very secretive about his personal information." She tapped the side of her forehead, indicating the man in question might be a little "tetched" as most Southerners would say. "I'm afraid I _must_ go reassure Sister Mary Agnes. Is there anything else I can do?"

Chase was already turning aside, but he looked over his shoulder. "Yes. Pray."

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thanks for the reviews! There's only one more chapter to finish, and then this story's done. Don't hate me because I leave some questions unanswered. I _do_ plan a sequel. Even if I don't manage a second story, I will post the answers to those questions in my profile. Honest!


	13. How Shall We Answer Terror's Cry?

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 13**: **How Shall We Answer Terror's Cry****?**

_"When murd'rous spite knocks down our door, and violence breaks upon our shore; O let us come and look to You to know Your will—what shall we do?"—Richard W. Adams_

Northman met Chase and Sookie at Meredith's iron gate. The expression on his face reminded Brandon of a soulless executioner: cold, emotionless, stone. The barest mask of civility. Sookie immediately placed herself between the two vampires, which made Chase scowl. He needed no protection from the Viking. The silence stretched for several seconds.

"I will deal with you later, my lover." There was the faintest emphasis on "my" but otherwise Northman's tone was flat. He appeared to dismiss the girl, turning his attention then to Brandon. "It is to be hoped you have something to report. If you risked her life for nothing...." His words trailed into silence; there was no need to finish the sentence.

"We do!" This was Sookie. "We—"

"Sookie." At least Eric's voice was softer, less mechanical.

Brandon stepped forward, moving up beside the girl. "We followed the van to the mission on St. Vincent Ave., but missed them. We did, however, identify Reggie."

"Reggie?"

"Yes. I heard the killer mention a Reggie, remember? We're pretty sure we know who that is, now. One of the Sisters at the mission told us Reggie comes by and does odd jobs for them. He lives by the airport."

Northman didn't appear to care much for what Sookie said. His expression was implacable. Had he been human, it's quite likely he would've ranted and raged at the girl, but being a 1000-year old vampire means learning complete control of your every emotion.

"You should _not_ disobey me." It was unclear to whom he spoke. "Come." A beat. "_Both _of you." He turned, as if expecting Chase and Sookie to follow.

Neither moved. Sookie's stubborn expression told Chase she was about to flaunt her independence again—which might be extremely dangerous considering Northman's mood. Chase mentally prepared himself for the battle he felt sure would erupt between himself and the Sheriff. Brandon had no intention of leaving until he knew Meredith was safe.

While Sookie made her stand, Chase pushed open the iron gate. Heading up the broken walk to the front steps, he heard heard heated words being exchanged behind him. He felt it unlikely the Viking would harm Sookie; the bond between them would prevent it. It wouldn't, however, stop Eric from hauling her bodily back to _Fangtasia_ if he chose. Either way, it wasn't Brandon's concern at the moment.

Taking the steps two at a time, he was at the front door in seconds, finger pressing the doorbell. He waited to hear movement inside; the lights were still on, and he heard the muffled sound of what might have been a television.

In a few minutes, he heard shuffling footsteps coming closer to the door.

"Who is it?" Grace. Her tone was wary. "Don't expect me to open the door this time of night until I know who's come calling." There was no compromise in that tone. "Now, who are you and what do you want?"

"Chase Brandon—is Meredith here?" There was enough urgency in his voice to let the older woman know his question was serious. "I need to know if Meredith got home from the mission."

"No—and you're not coming inside to wait."

Had he wished, Chase could've broken the door down and entered of his own volition. Meredith had already invited him inside, and the invitation would last until she revoked it. He leaned against the door jamb, trying to figure his next move when Sookie arrived on the veranda. Chase gave her a glance, noting the Sheriff not far behind.

"She telling the truth." Sookie told him. "Does she know Reggie?"

Chase had no answer for that, save to ask. "Grace, this is _very_ important. Do you know a handyman by the name of Reggie?" There was silence from the other side of the door, but he knew the black woman was still there; he could hear her breathe. "Meredith may be in serious danger. Finding Reggie is paramount."

Finally, "Ask the bums who hang out under the bridge. Now, go away before I call the police!"

"That's fine. In fact, ask for Detective Julio Menéndez. Tell him Chase Brandon told you to call. Tell him to meet me under the 79th St. underpass," he told her.

Sookie added, "Please, ma'am, it's important. Meredith's life depends on it."

There was no answer for long seconds. Then, "All right. Now get!" Footsteps retreated from the door.

Chase turned to leave the porch, only to be blocked by the Viking. With Northman on the bottom step, and Brandon one above, the two men were of a height. Both stood their ground, expressions almost clinically chiseled from stone.

"You have much for which to answer, Brandon." The words fell like icicles.

"Put it on my tab," Chase snarled. He shifted slightly, ready to bypass the Viking.

"Not only did you disobey me, you put my bonded in danger. I do not take that lightly." There was menace in the Sheriff's tone.

"We can settle this later." When Northman didn't move, Chase leaped, landing several feet beyond the Sheriff. "If you want these murders stopped, come with me. Otherwise—" Chase left the sentence open-ended. No mater Eric's choice, Brandon wasn't waiting any longer.

It took him less than ten minutes to reach the overpass. He immediately spotted the burning oil drum. Three individuals stood around it, hands thrust toward the flames. All three were completely taken by surprise when Chase seemed to simply appear from the darkness.

A sinister presence that boded ill for any who thwarted him, Chase grasped the first man he came to around the throat. Holding him aloft, Brandon could literally smell the bum's fear as his feet dangled. He struggled, gasping for air.

"Reggie—where is he?" His voice sounded like the hiss of a reptile. "Tell me before I kill you."

The other two men abandoned their companion, running away—only to come face to face with the Viking. Eric herded them back to Brandon, whose captive's feet were several inches above the ground. The man's breath was wheezing gasps. He could barely talk, words almost unintelligible.

"Put him down. He can't talk if you're choking him!"

Sookie's voice cut through Brandon's anger. She made sense, and thus Chase eased his grasp, lowering the man until his feet once more touched the ground. His grip switched to the man's tattered army jacket, as the bum sagged in relief. Still seething with rage—and, were Chase to be honest, worry over Meredith—he repeated his demand.

"Down b-by th' airport. D-don't know ... where." The words came out slowly as the man put a hand to his throat.

"Don't kill him, please." Sookie again, pleading with the vampires.

Chase looked at her, eyes hard, failing to understand her compassion for this lesser creature. He snarled when he saw tears glistening in the girl's eyes, and released his hold. The bum dropped to the ground in a whimpering pile of ragged clothes and greasy hair.

"Where does he live?" This demand was from Northman, a pale, ghostly specter in the flickering firelight. A demonic expression on his face, he was frightening in his total lack of emotion. "Tell him or—" He broke off, leaving the bums to use their imagination.

"He knows." Sookie pointed to one of the men in front of Northman.

"Twelve-fourteen Snowden Dr.—off Hollywood. By the U-Pac tracks." The man pointed to spoke up, words tripping over themselves to get out fast enough. "White house, blue trim. Vacant lot on both sides." He cowered, appearing to shrink in on himself.

"He live _with_ anyone?—parents, wife, roommate?"

"No—people crash there now and then." Chase's former captive answered quickly. "Lately only this one guy. Monty." He paused, taking a breath. "Ever'body steers clear o'him 'cause he crazy."

Two pairs of vampire eyes narrowed. "Monty." Chase repeated the name, then glanced at Sookie. "That the truth?" The answer was a quick nod. Turning on the men, Chase concentrated. "We were never here. You saw no one tonight. Now leave. Take your things and find another place to sleep."

Three heads nodded, and three men scrambled to gather their things. The bums were in the process of getting the hell out of Dodge when a black Crown Victoria stopped under the bridge. Julio Menéndez climbed out of the driver's side, making a beeline for the small gathering. He appeared to take in the scene as he halted beside Northman. Silence lasted a few seconds before the detective spoke.

"A very upset woman just told me to meet 'that vampire Brandon' here." He looked from Northman to Chase, then to Sookie, his eyes remaining there a few moments before moving to Chase again. "All right, Brandon, I'm here. What's going on?"

Chase reluctantly took precious minutes to explain. "...so, we have to find this Reggie before there's another killing."

Menéndez hesitated, expression uncertain. He looked at both vampires once more. Never before had Brandon seen the detective so resemble Eustace Chapuys as at that precise moment. The nearly black eyes glittered in the firelight, and the dark, swarthy skin seemed to shrink on his skull. There was pure malevolence in his expression. Brandon was reminded of the treachery Chapuys perpetrated at Henry's court, the intrigue and suffering he caused in the name of Spain. A Catholic himself, even Chase found it hard to forgive the ambassador's treasonous behavior in Catherine's name.

"Why aren't you doing something?" The voice was Sookie's. She was staring at Menéndez with a quizzical expression. "Shouldn't you be calling in this info?"

"She has a point." This from Northman, who also turned to face the detective. "Why _aren't_ you doing anything?"

"I'm just considering my options." The voice was steady, if a little nasal. "What about the three men I saw running away from here?"

"They won't remember anything about," Chase said firmly, his eyes never left the Spaniard. "We're wasting time. An innocent woman could be dying this very second, and you're more concerned about street people." The menace in Brandon's tone was unmistakable. "Why would that be, I wonder?"

Chase saw Julio take a step back, bringing him closer to Sookie. "I have to go to my car to call it in." Another step back—and then a blur of movement.

Sookie didn't even have a chance to scream. Menéndez grabbed her by the throat, dragging her up and backwards to his car. Both older vampires started forward, but were caught completely by surprise when Julio literally flew toward the street. Julio's fangs were extended, and his nails seemed like claws as they rested against Sookie's throat. The Viking poised, snarling.

"I wouldn't, Señor Northman." The warning was clear, especially since Julio held Sookie in such a way that would make snapping her neck easy. "The señorita will accompany me—unless either of you are foolish enough to try and stop me." He smiled, fangs gleaming. "I am certain His Majesty will pay handsomely for you, _mi querida_."

Chase saw Northman literally vibrate with anger, but the Viking held his position. Neither of them dared risk Sookie's safety. They watched Menéndez shove Sookie into the backseat of his car. The doors wouldn't open, no matter how hard she tried. Julio then pulled a pistol from the holster beneath his jacket.

"Silver bullets kill as effectively as other bullets," Menéndez warned. "Do not follow or she dies."

To emphasize his point, Julio fired three shots toward Chase and the Sheriff. Chase dove for the filthy ground and heard a grunt of pain from Northman. Hearing the powerful engine roar to life, Chase lifted his head in time to see the Crown Victoria pull away from the curb with a screech of tires. Turning immediately to look at the Viking, he saw blood seeping from Northman's side. The Sheriff writhed in pain as the poisonous silver ate its way into the vampire's body.

In the blink of an eye, Chase was at Eric's side, examining the wound. It would not be life-threatening (unlife threatening?) had it been an ordinary bullet, but silver was anathema to vampires. It's chemical make up destroyed cells and increased damage of wounds which would otherwise be easily healed. A lucky shot for Julio, it had caught Northman as he dove for the ground, impacting on his lower left side. Not enough to kill, but certainly enough to incapacitate.

The sensation of impotence didn't sit well with Chase, nor with Northman, he imagined. "I'll call Pam," Brandon told the Sheriff. "She'll bring help. Menéndez has probably chartered a plane," Brandon said. "Otherwise, he'd have to go to ground, and he knows Sookie won't sit still for eight hours without trying to escape."

_Besides, she still has the switchblade I gave her._

"Yes." The word was a hiss as the silver burned its way deeper into Northman's side.

It didn't take long for Chase to reach Pam, and only slightly longer before Eric's childe showed up at the overpass.

"Pam, I can't stay. I have to find Sookie," Chase told her while she arranged to transport Northman back to _Fangtasia_. The blonde vampire gave him a look which plainly said she wasn't happy, but nodded. "Tell him I'll make sure she's safe, then I'm going after Meredith."

With that, Chase left in a blur of movement. Instinct told him Menéndez wouldn't head for the larger, regional airport, but to one of the smaller ones scattered throughout the area. The closest was Shreveport Downtown Airport, which catered to smaller planes. He wagered Julio already had a Lear or Cessna chartered. Timing would be close. Chase sped through the streets, virtually unseen by human eyes.

Luck was with him, and Brandon spotted the Crown Victoria as it pulled through the gate of Smith Air Charters. He didn't bother trying to stop the car, but headed straight for the only plane on the tarmac. He had no plan, just an objective—rescue Sookie Stackhouse. Brandon wasn't certain _why_ she was suddenly of such concern, but she had proved handy on the hunt for Meredith's kidnappers. His respect for the girl from Bon Temps had grown tenfold in the past few hours.

The door of the Cessna Citation was open, awaiting its passengers. Chase dashed up the stairs, slipping silently inside. He heard voices in the rear of the plane, but his interest lay forward. Turning to the curtain separating the cockpit from the passenger compartment, Chase found only the pilot in place, apparently doing the pre-flight check.

Tapping him on the shoulder, Chase looked the startled man square in the eyes. "You cannot take off. There is a serious problem in the starboard engine. You will not allow this plane to fly." Brandon concentrated, easily implanting the order. Once the pilot was convinced, he commenced to call the tower and report engine failure. Satisfied the plane would not immediately take off, Chase retired to the rear of the craft, where he similarly convinced the rest of the crew they needed to de-plane until the engine was repaired. The co-pilot and two flight attendants simply nodded, gathered their things and left the plane.

He heard Sookie and Julio before he saw them. She was trying to convince the detective to release her. She promised to convince Northman to spare his life, but Menéndez wasn't buying it. He said he wanted to see the Sheriff brought down, and that he knew de Castro would pay handsomely for her. Menéndez held Sookie by the arm, gripping tightly. She pulled back as they reached the top of the stairs which gave Chase the perfect opportunity.

Menéndez never saw what hit him. Chase grabbed Sookie as Julio fell backwards off the small platform at the top of the stairs. The drop wasn't far, but the detective had the misfortune to land on the wheel locking mechanism. A long, thin piece of metal pierced him back to front, and he lay helpless on the tarmac. He struggled, but could not free himself. The wound wasn't fatal, but it incapacitated the vampire until Chase could make arrangements for his transportation to a secure location.

A neighboring charter service provided the perfect answer. Technicians from Anubis Airlines helped Chase secure Menéndez in a locked coffin. If anyone at the airline found Brandon's request for a coffin delivery to another airline odd, he referred them to the Sheriff of Area Five for explanation.

Only after Menéndez was safely contained did Chase turn his attention to Sookie. She sat in the Smith Air Charter's waiting room, no worse for wear. Her only question was, "Where's Eric?" When Brandon explained, her face paled. He assured her Pam would take care of Northman, that apparently eased Sookie's mind enough for her next words to completely take Brandon by surprise.

"Okay, let's take the Crown Vic and head over to this Reggie's house." Sookie was raring to go, but Chase looked confused. He'd expected her to want to get back to Northman as soon as possible, and said as much. "Oh, he'll be pissed, but I'm not needed. Meredith's the one in trouble."

Since Brandon couldn't think of an appropriate argument, he followed her out to the black car thinking there was something to be said about strong-willed, assertive, independent women willing to put their lives on the line for someone else.

* * *

**AUTHOR NOTES: **To answer a question that keeps cropping up: I don't mean to upset anyone, but I don't like the character enough for him to have had a large role. He is mentioned in the story, and given investigative type assignments, just "off camera," so to speak. As always, thanks for taking the time to review, and please don't hesitate to ask questions or make suggestions. I'm listening....


	14. My Span of Life Will Soon Be Done

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 14****:** **My Span of Life Will Soon Be Done**

"_Courage, my soul! thy bitter cross, in every trial here; Shall bear thee to thy heaven above, but shall not enter there."_—Maria F. Cowper, 1792

The house wasn't hard to find. It was the only one flanked by vacant lots. It was an older neighborhood, with larger lots and houses which looked to be from the late 1950s: one story, flat-roofed, ranch style with decently kept yards. The kind of area where parents moved to give the kids a place to play. This close to the airport, however, it wasn't as desirable, so many of the homes had "for sale" signs in the front yard.

Chase drove by twice but all the curtains were closed. It was impossible to see any occupants inside. Finally, he parked the Crown Victoria at the end of the adjacent Tinker St.

"Odd to find a homeless man living in a subdivision." Sookie's observation put voice to Chase's thoughts. "Unless he's squatting?"

"Or he _isn't_ a bum." There was something dangerous in Brandon's tone of voice. The girl beside him looked his way, a touch of concern in her expression. "Don't worry. I won't to kill him—unless he does something to provoke me." A pause. "Like breathing."

It was humor, but neither Chase nor Sookie laughed.

"Please—"

"I'm after information, not revenge. I'll leave that to Northman."

By mentioning the Viking, he drew Sookie's mind away from his intentions. She'd have enough to do keeping her lover from killing Menéndez. Since the detective was a vampire, it would be up to the Sheriff to exact punishment. Human police wouldn't interfere. Chase couldn't see Northman allowing Julio to survive much longer than it took to open the coffin he'd sent to _Fangtasia_.

"Sucks to be him." Sookie's voice sounded colder than usual. "I've had a bad feeling about Menéndez for a while. I just don't know if he's connected to the murders. There're times I _really _wish I could read vampire minds."

"Did you pick up any thoughts as we drove by?"

"I tried. There's someone there, but it felt like something blocked me."

Although curious, Chase simply nodded, opening his car door. Sookie did likewise, and came around the vehicle to stand beside Brandon. He looked down at her, wondering what a tiny thing like she could do to help. Northman would be furious that Chase hadn't immediately delivered Sookie back to the bar. As it was, Brandon felt the faintest pull of approaching day break, which meant he had an hour, maybe two, at the most.

"Let's find out, shall we?" Chase said, slipping on a pair of black leather gloves. No sense leaving fingerprints behind.

They walked quietly up Tinker St., turning right at the corner. Snowden Ave. was quiet, the only sound a dog barking from someone's back yard. Trees made it simple to move from shadow to shadow. They approached the house cautiously. The front yard wasn't fenced, but the back was enclosed by six-foot of sturdy chainlink. An old "Beware of Dog" sign was prominently displayed, but the yard looked deserted. For Chase, a dog would mean a delay, nothing more.

There was no black van—or any other vehicle, for that matter. Then again, the garage was closed; it could be inside there. A cursory examination of the door showed it locked. Windows were covered with drapes; nothing unusual that late at night in the suburbs. The front door was also locked. Preferring to not be seen breaking in, Chase made his way around to the side of the house. There he found an entrance into what he assumed was a utility area. A peek revealed a washer and dryer, storage cabinets and the like.

Using a hand signal, he ordered Sookie back, then quite simply twisted the door knob. It gave way, being no match against Chase's strength. No alarm went off, so Brandon beckoned Sookie forward, both of them slipping into the darkened laundry room. Another door opposite likely led into the house, but it was heavily curtained. There was no way to tell if anyone waited on the other side.

_Except for Sookie._

It didn't take her long to find out. "Someone's there, but I can't get a clear thought pattern. It's like a veil's over his mind."

Her words were barely a whisper, but Brandon heard quite easily. He nodded, mouth set in a grim line. Before he could stop himself, he was at the door, turning the knob, expecting to hear the lock break.

It was open. In fact, it gave Chase a bit of a start. He almost flew into the lighted kitchen. Cursing softly, his eyes darted around until they landed on a macabre sight.

The man wasn't big. He was dressed simply: jeans, plaid shirt, sneakers. He sat in a ladder back chair at a matching table. On the white tablecloth in front of him sat a clock reading 4:20 in the morning. He didn't stir when Chase made his abrupt entrance. In fact, he didn't move at all. His eyes were glued to the clock, a soft ticking the only sound in the room. An inset dial indicated an alarm set at 4:30.

The other thing Chase instantly noticed was a revolver in the man's right hand whose barrel rested against his temple, finger on the trigger.

Brandon assumed this was Reggie, and tried to make sense of the scenario. So, apparently, was Sookie, who followed in Chase's wake. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and a muffled "Oh, my _God_!" as she moved up behind him.

"What's wrong with him?" Sookie wondered, moving around Chase to stare at the man and the gun. "Can you stop this?"

"That depends," Chase answered, brow creased in thought. "If it's a glamour, then I can if the vampire is younger than I am. If it's not glamour—" He shook his head, baffled.

"Glamour." Sookie repeated the word, staring at Reggie. "Wait! It isn't glamour. It's _hypnosis_." She turned to Chase. "Remember in the office? I said the _thing_ knew how to mesmerize people? I think, maybe, that's what he's done here. Hypnotized him somehow to kill himself—though they're not supposed to be able to make someone do something against their will."

"Maybe it isn't against his will." Chase approached Reggie, making as little noise as possible. He positioned himself behind the man, judging the distance between the gun barrel and his temple, and the time left on the clock. "Maybe he was afraid, and your hypnotist preyed on that, making him feel he should die for what he helped do."

"That might do it."

Brandon studied the situation a few moments more, then, "I can't break hypnosis, so I'm going to try something else. Get on the floor. I can't worry about you getting hit by the bullet." He heard movement, and assumed Sookie followed orders.

Four-twenty-eight. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Chase wrapped both hands around Reggie's wrist, bracing himself for instantaneous action. The ticking seemed endless.

Four-twenty-nine. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The alarm was loud, but the gunshot was louder. Chase was a blur of motion as he grabbed the gun, wresting it from Reggie's hand mere nano-seconds before the bullet exploded from the chamber and embedded itself harmlessly in the kitchen wall. Reggie fell from the chair, landing on the floor with Chase. His eyes were still glassy, but his body was lost its rigidity. Chase took the gun, lying still for a few moments. Then he climbed to his feet, dragging Reggie with him.

Forcing the man to meet his gaze, Chase concentrated, trying to break the hypnosis. He'd never done it before, and had no idea if a glamour would work. His eyes bored into Reggie's, pouring all his age and will into the man. Finally, there was a flicker of intelligence, and Chase knew he was at least partially successful.

"Let me know when you can read him," Brandon told Sookie.

It took precious time, but eventually she answered. "I'm ... he's coming back. Slowly. He's wondering why we're here in his mother's house. He ... doesn't remember anything."

Chase didn't dare glance away from Reggie lest his tenuous hold on the man be broken. "I'll see what I can do."

It was imperative they reach Reggie soon. Finally, the man's body relaxed, and the eyes locked with Chase's showed some reaction. His expression went slack, and he seemed to recognize his surroundings—and what was happening to him. Fear was palpable; Chase could smell it on him. Brandon's hand shot out, grasping Reggie by the throat. Fangs dropped, gleaming sharply in the light. Chase's face was a mask of fury, though his hand didn't constrict around Reggie's neck. This one could not be killed until they had the info needed to find Meredith.

"Where is she?" The question was a growl. Chase's upper lip curled up, revealing his fangs. He leaned close, smelling the man's terror. "What have you done with her?"

"I don't k-know!" Mixed emotions: horror, fear, fascination, confusion. "M-monty has her."

"Where is Monty?"

"I don't know!" Reggie looked frantically around the kitchen. "He was right here—"

Realizing Reggie was probably put under hypnosis before Monty left, Sookie urged Chase to back off a little. "He probably doesn't know."

"Who are you?" Reggie's expression was pure terror when he saw the fangs. "Oh, _God_—you're a vampire!" The man tried to scramble backwards out of the chair. "Merciful God, please spare me! I ain't done nothing to you people! I _swear_!—and I don't know where Monty is."

"Is he telling the truth?" Chase was a little irritated with the entire situation.

"Not completely." Sookie stood to one side, watching Chase's captive. "He has a good idea where this Monty will be."

"_Where_!" It was no request, it was a demand. Reggie literally shrank beneath Chase's intense scrutiny. "Tell me, or you will suffer the same fate as the women you killed!"

"I didn't kill anyone! I swear!" Chase smelled piss, and was disgusted to hear the drip of urine as it hit the tile floor beneath Reggie's chair. "It warn't me!" The man began to rock back and forth, uttering snatches of prayers.

"Where is Monty going?" This from Sookie. Her voice was softer, her manner soothing. "Tell us, Reggie."

Chase finally released the man, watching him crumble in on himself. "He ... he's gonna go t'hell. That's where all th' bad people go. He's gonna go t'hell." Brandon watched Reggie fight the compulsion not to reveal the information. "I wanna tell. I gotta tell. I wanna tell—B-belle. Belle, I gotta tell." His head came up; there were tears in his eyes. "B-benton. _Belle's_. He gonna go see Belle. He gonna see Belle. Gonna use the vampire's treasure and bite Belle!"

This went on for several minutes, punctuated by nearly incoherent prayers and whimpering. Chase turned toward Sookie, expression expectant.

"He's telling the truth as he knows it." She was quiet a moment. "We should take him to _Fangtasia_. Eric will know where to keep him until he can be turned over to the police."

The pull of dawn was bearing down on Chase. He could feel the lure of sleep**(,)** and cursed his nature. Brandon had no idea how long Monty would wait before killing Meredith, and it made him furious to feel so helpless. With day imminent, he'd barely make it back to the bar before succumbing to slumber. He'd be forced to seek haven in _Fangtasia_ since he'd never make it to his house before the sun came up.

The race was close, but Chase and Sookie made it to the bar with a few minutes to spare. There was barely time to inform the Sheriff of recent events**(,)** and confine the mentally unstable Reggie to a cage in the basement. Only then did Chase and Sookie discover the coffin from Anubis Airlines was never delivered, and it was too late to find out what happened. The vampires sought shelter beneath _Fangtasia_; Sookie opted for the couch in Eric's office.

Brandon's eyes snapped open at sunset. He was instantly aware of his strange surroundings, remembering everything which had transpired the night before. He could hear the drip of water from somewhere nearby. With a lot of outer Shreveport built atop reclaimed swampland, basements were rare. The joke was, most basements in Louisiana were little more than underground swimming pools. True to form, beneath _Fantasia_ was a damp, clammy place not particularly known for its habitability.

In other words, it made a perfect haven for vampiresand a good place to hold captives.

Chase was alerted to the presence of others by voices. The brick walls and concrete floors distorted them, but he recognized Northman and Sookie. Arising from the makeshift bed, he dusted himself off and headed out through the open doorway. Pale light streamed through the darkness from bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling. A few were turned on, allowing him to find his way easily to where the Sheriff and Sookie stood in front of Reggie's cell.

Northman looked a little worse for wear after being shot with a silver bullet, but he was ambulatory—and really pissed off. Upon hearing Chase's approach, he turned a baleful glare on him, one which made even Brandon hesitate. Sookie tried to appear at ease, but it was easy to see she was concerned. Her veneer of bravado was stripping away with every second she stood next to Eric.

"If you ever disobey me again, you will find yourself wrapped in silver and awaiting my pleasure down here." This was no veiled threat; Northman meant every word. "You escape my wrath only because you rescued Sookie from Menéndez."

"Eric, it was my—"

Chase saw Northman wave away Sookie's protest. "I know it was your idea to go after this human, my lover. Never make the mistake of believing I'm unfamiliar with your impulsive nature, however, Brandon could have just as easily brought you to me instead of placing your life in danger."

"I told you, I wasn't in danger!" Chase heard anger in Sookie's voice, and knew this could erupt into a confrontation between the lovers. "He was hypnotized to kill _himself_, no one else. I was perfectly safe with Chase, and you know it."

Brandon spoke for the first time. "I made certain she faced no danger," he said in his own defense. "Once Menéndez was locked in the coffin—"

"—which never arrived."

"—Sookie and I decided to continue our original mission. We found the house**(,)** and captured the human accomplice before he could kill himself. Had we been a few minutes later, everything he knows would've died with him." Chase was firm in his words, though respectful. He was no fool; he knew what a pissed off Northman could do to him.

Northman remained quiet for long moments, then turned to Sookie. "You tread on thin ice, my lover. How can I protect you if you persist on putting yourself in harm's way?"

Sookie's temper bristled. "What was I supposed to do? He was a _vampire_, for God's sake. Even the switchblade Chase gave me wouldn't have done any good against him. My only hope was to convince His Majesty to send me back to you!" Hands on hips, jaw set stubbornly. "Now, are we going to interrogate the prisoner, or stand here and argue?"

Chase admired her spirit. "Has there been any word on Menéndez's whereabouts?"

Northman turned his attention back on Chase. "Not yet, though I suspect he has gone to ground someplace in the city. I have Bill hacking into passenger lists and cargo manifests for all major airlines, as well as all the local charter companies. Pam's gone to his apartment to see if she can find any clues." The Viking sounded reluctant to discuss his orders with Brandon.

"This one may know more than he's telling," Chase said flatly. "Sookie was of immense help getting the truth from him."

There was a glance of pure annoyance from Northman, but Sookie spoke up. "Okay, let's get this show on the road." She turned toward Reggie, who sat quietly in his cage. He looked up at the sound of her voice when she asked about Menéndez and Monty.

Reggie said nothing, merely cocked his head to the side. "Vampire whore." The eeriest thing was the pleasant tone of voice in which the words were said. "God spits on you."

After several minutes of his answering her questions like this, Sookie shook her head. "It's useless. His mind is almost totally gone. There's barely a coherent thought in there." Her tone was sad. "Can you come up with a story so we can have him picked up?"

The question was for Northman, who simply nodded. "I will see he is taken to an appropriate place." That's all he said, then beckoned for them to follow him out of the basement.

It appeared Monty had Meredith, probably someplace in or around Benton. _Belle's_ apparently entered into the situation somehow, but Reggie didn't seem to know much beyond that. How Menéndez fit into the equation was anyone's guess. Was the Spaniard one of the killers? Possibly, but not likely. Neither Pam nor Chase had smelled him on Viola Adams, and the "bite" marks weren't from a vampire, either. Perhaps Julio was connected in some other manner.

_And what is the vampire's treasure?_

They left Reggie in the basement, a mere shell of himself. Northman called the police, turning him over as a homeless bum who wandered into the bar. Pam backed up the story, and the human police left with him—after she made sure Reggie forget a few key elements of his experience.

Chase headed home immediately after Reggie was taken away. He had an important errand to run, and time was running out. An hour later, he was headed northward on LA-3. The night was cold and crisp, slightly humid. Fine for a trip to Benton. Chase had to find Meredith, and he had a feeling his search would begin at _Belle's_. Interesting the owner had a secret vampire partner who enjoyed Karen Collins' dancing. He had no idea what kind of place _Belle's_ was, but pictured a place where dancers did double duty on their backs.

Benton wasn't a big town. All Chase needed was an address; common sense would take care of the rest. After giving the Sheriff a quick call, Brandon followed the scenic route to a small community less than 30 miles north of Bossier City. Not far from Barksdale AFB, the streets were fairly deserted, save for high school kids hanging out at the local Sonic. _Belle's_ was a rather plain building with a red neon, woman-shaped sign with moving hips outside. The unpaved parking lot was about half full of vehicles: pick-up trucks, motorcycles, SUVs. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the old, black Ford van.

Still, Chase had to start somewhere, and _Belle's_ was as good a place as any—especially since he had a feeling time was running out for Meredith.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES****:** Once again, thanks for all the positive comments. Even those of you who asked me questions encouraged me to keep writing. Since it's nearing the finish line, I have a couple of questions: should I do a sequel, or just keep adding chapters to this story? Please PM with your suggestion.


	15. Another Year Completed

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 15****: ****Another Year Completed**

"_Another year completed, the day comes round once more; Which with our patron's radiance is bright as heretofore. Now, strong in hope, united, his festival we greet; He will present our troubles before the mercy-seat."_—Paulinus of Nola (353-431)

"It's just like Merlotte's, only with stripper poles."

Sookie sat across from Chase, Northman at her side. Their booth was toward the back, near the kitchen door. Not many patrons were eating, though. Mostly the bar appeared to be a watering hole for local rednecks, a few bikers and off-duty military personnel from nearby Barksdale AFB. The only women present were either dancers or waitresses, so Sookie stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.

So did Brandon and the Sheriff. Chase felt eyes on them from the moment they entered. Two burly biker-types acted as bouncers, but the clientele seemed mostly made up of locals. They drank and watched the girls perform, occasionally casting their eyes toward the odd trio. Apparently, not many vampires chose to patronize _Belle's_. Chase could certainly see why; it was, plain and simply put, a dive.

The dancers were passable, but nothing exciting. Northman and Chase weren't even mildly tempted by their erotic performances. Sookie just looked bored, excusing herself to wander the bar alone. She checked out the video poker games at one bar, played a game of pool with a couple of rednecks, eluded hands like the expert she was—all under the watchful eye of the Sheriff. Chase kept his own eyes open for anything unusual, though he was unfamiliar with what was routine for this establishment. Both men were approached for lap dances; both refused.

Chase saw Sookie returning to the booth, strolling casually though her expression belied her calmness. She slid into the seat beside Eric, leaning close to him. "I think I have something," she said softly while snuggling with the Viking. "Couple of those guys in the corner were talking about a party out at Frankie's place. Said Frankie's friend had a surprise for them—a 'real looker' this time."

Chase tensed, eyes cutting to the opposite corner of the bar. A table of four men sat drinking beer. Three of them wore the typical redneck look—jeans, tee-shirts, ball caps, workmen's boots. The fourth wore a stylish, black jumpsuit with a silver-colored emblem on the front pocket. Unfortunately, Chase couldn't tell what the symbol was, nor could he hear their conversation. They were too far away, and the music was simply too loud.

At that moment, two of the men—including the one in the jumpsuit—stood, heading toward a hallway in the back. A red neon sign over the opening read "Restrooms." Before Chase knew it, Sookie was up and moving toward the same doorway. Northman hissed, reaching out a heartbeat too late. Not wanting to cause a scene, the Viking was forced to remain seated and not display any of his vampiric talents. Northman's voice was low and in a language Chase didn't speak. He could, however, imagine what the other vampire said.

Tense moments passed until Sookie came out of the hallway. She was moving with quick steps, making a beeline for their booth, not looking back.

"Don't do that a—"

The Sheriff was interrupted by Sookie practically diving into the booth. She slid close to Northman, making Chase wonder what happened in the hall. He immediately looked in that direction, seeing Jumpsuit Man leaving the corridor, heading toward the bar. The red-head behind the counter gave him a smile, and he handed her something. She gave him a nod, pocketing whatever it was.

The other man was standing in the doorway, watching Sookie with narrowed eyes. He was big, he was dark-skinned, and he was nearly filling the opening. Something in his expression reminded Chase of a pissed off bull. Northman, apparently didn't like the way the man was watching Sookie, but she put her hand over the Viking's, softly urging him not to move. Chase, in the meantime, kept watch on the redneck version of King Kong, surreptitiously observing him from the corner of his eyes. Finally, the big man shook his head and returned to the other table.

"Is he gone?" Sookie whispered. Chase nodded, and she sighed with relief. "I was outside the men's room listening, and they almost caught me. I had to get out of there fast." She reached for her drink, taking a big swallow before adding, "They're leaving soon. I think we should head out before they do, so we can follow." A pause. "You go first, Chase."

It seemed like a good idea. Chase beckoned for the check, paying the waitress for a beer and two True Bloods. He gave her a decent tip, then slid out from the booth. Nodding, he headed for the door, helmet in hand. Not that he wore it, but hard fiberglass makes a good weapon in a bar fight. Outside, the road was dark; most businesses were closed. Chase started his Harley, pulling out of the parking lot. He went about a mile down the road, then doubled back. Parking in the shadow of a closed gas station, he cut his headlight and watched the bar. Taking out his cell phone, he called Northman, letting the Sheriff know where he waited.

Not long afterward, the four men left the bar, getting into three separate vehicles: two got into a Jeep Wrangler, one into a Ford F-150 and the last one into a shiny black van marked with the Anubis Airline logo. Chase's brows knitted as something might've just fallen into place. He couldn't be certain, of course, but it had been an Anubis van which was supposed to deliver Menéndez to _Fangtasia_ the night before.

As the three vehicles pulled out of the parking lot, Chase abandoned his bike, taking to the road on foot. He could easily run fast enough to follow the men, though he did have to admit running and talking on a cell phone wasn't the easiest thing he'd ever done. Still, he had to let Northman know which way to go, so despite running in and out of dead zones, he set his GPS signal so the Sheriff could follow.

About two miles north of _Belle's_, they turned on Old Plain Dealing Rd., heading west out of Benton. It was easier without having to talk; as long as he kept the cell phone engaged, the tracer would give his location. Somewhere behind him, Sookie and Northman were supposedly following in the Corvette—unless something happened at the bar to detain them. Even so, Chase was resourceful. If there weren't too many people present, he should be able to handle things. Still, Northman's backup would be more than welcome.

Ten minutes later, the vehicles turned west again, this time onto Willow Bluff Rd., which led into swampier land. There were few houses on this road, and Chase could smell marshland. He dropped back to the road where he could see their taillights rather than lose them in the thick foliage. Cypress trees and dark water bordered the road, which was now little more than a raised channel through the swamp. From the distance they'd traveled, Brandon figured they were getting close to the Red River. That part of Louisiana was better known for fish camps and hunting shacks than homes, and they'd left civilization far behind.

_Wonder how that pretty Corvette will handle a good, ol' fashioned Louisiana dirt road?_

In actuality, calling the dirt track a road was giving it far more credit than it deserved. No more than ten feet wide, it probably hadn't seen a road grater since it was built. Bridges over the water were planks of twelve by six wood sturdy enough to bear the weight of the vehicles. Chase had no idea how close to the river he actually was, but the night smelled of wetlands and humidity. He could feel the latter on his skin as he sped along behind the last vehicle—the black van he presumed carried Menéndez's coffin. Not that Brandon knew this for certain. He just had a feeling the vampire would somehow play a part in all this.

A moment later and the taillights disappeared around a bend in the road. Chase was about to follow when he sensed he wasn't alone on the road. There was literally no where to hide, and Chase whirled around, poised to face his enemy.

"Don't." The voice was familiar. Chase whirled around, watching Northman slowly lowering himself to the road beside him. Sookie was carried on the Viking's back, her arms and legs wrapped around the tall Sheriff. "Where are they?"

"Around a bend in the road. I assume they're heading to the 'party.'"

Northman nodded, letting Sookie slip down his back. "You will remain here."

"Like hell!" Her voice was low, but adamant. Chase could easily see the stubborn lift of the Stackhouse girl's chin. "You are _so_ not leaving me out here in the middle of the swamp, Eric Northman, so just forget it."

"You will—"

"—wait out of harm's way, but I'm not staying _here_." There was a splashing in the water not far away. "There are _gators_ out there, and they'd just _love_ a Sookie-sized treat."

Silence from Northman probably indicated he couldn't argue with her on that point. He reached out, taking her wrist in his hand, continuing down the track. Chase snickered, not caring whether or not the sound carried to the Sheriff. The more he got to know this human, the more he appreciated her assertiveness. Northman was wise to keep a short leash on her, and let everyone know she belonged to him.

They nearly stumbled into the "party." The road came to an abrupt end at a clearing. On probably the highest ground in the swamp stood a cypress wood shack. A few scattered bushes offered some concealment, and it was behind one of these they hid. Voices and boisterous laughter echoed through the swamp from inside the structure. Two propane lanterns hung from hooks on the porch, offering a greenish glow to the area. Five vehicles were parked around the shack, amongst them a battered, black Ford Econoline van.

Wooden shutters prevented Chase from seeing inside the shack, but he clearly heard ribald jokes and suggestive comments being made about a woman. His instinct told him it was Meredith, and it was all he could do to keep from rushing the place to rescue her. Rage boiled inside him. His nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of the men's lust and sweat. Beside him, Northman remained calm.

Sookie, however, could read their minds, and she knew what was going to happen inside that cabin. "You have to stop them." Her whisper was desperate. "They're going to—do _awful_ things to her. I can feel it again. He's _insane_!" No need to explain what she meant. "If you don't do something, I wi—"

"You will remain here." This time Northman faced Sookie down. Chase saw her cower before the pure fury in his expression. "Understood?" His voice was a hiss, and the girl nodded. "Can you count how many?" he then asked her.

"Eight—maybe nine." The uncertainty made Chase clench his fists. "Ten with the girl. She's terrified." She turned to Brandon. "It's Meredith."

That was all Chase needed to know. He was poised to spring when the Viking's hand grasped his arm. "No. Even with your speed and strength, you cannot best all of them."

As much as Chase hated to admit it, he knew Northman was correct.

"You need a diversion." Sookie pointed beyond the shack to a ramshackle dock. "There's a boat, and where there's a boat, there's gasoline. Blow up one of those cars and you'll get everyone out of that cabin fast."

After a moment, Chase nodded. "The idea has merit."

"I also suggest calling the Sheriff of Bossier Parish. Unless he's in there, I'm betting he'd be right pleased to know what's going on here." Sookie looked pretty self-satisfied. "I can hel—"

"You can stay here and call the sheriff," Chase told her before the Viking could open his mouth.

It didn't take Chase long to reach the dock. About twenty feet from the back of the shack, it stretched half that length over the water. Beside it bobbed a flat-bottomed bass boat with an outboard motor at the back. Sitting on the dock was a 10-gallon gas can, some rope and what looked like a trout-line. Moving almost silently—certainly unheard over the racket inside—Chase stepped onto the sagging wood. It felt sturdy enough to carry his weight, and even if it wasn't, he could always levitate.

The Viking met him at the back of the old van. It was parked farthest from the shack, with the Anubis Airline van beside it. This was Northman's goal; he slipped through the shadows until he reached the side doors, finding them unlocked. Sliding them silently open, he inspected the interior. Moments later, he emerged with something in his hands, shaking his head.

"Nothing." The Sheriff's voice was barely a breath of air. "No coffin, no Menéndez, no nothing."

There wasn't time to ponder this development. Chase nodded, moving to the older van beside it. The driver's window was down, making it easy for Brandon to open the door. Inside, he found exactly what he needed. The tee-shirt was filthy, but it would serve a greater purpose now than clothing the insane; no need to wonder how he would use the cigarette lighter. Chase crept down the side of the van until he reached the gas cap. Deftly unscrewing it, he then tore the shirt into long strips. Wetting the strips with gasoline, he shoved one end into the tank, leaving it hanging to the ground. The rest of the gasoline he poured on the tall grass completely around the van, and inside the open driver's side window.

The fumes were strong, and Brandon knew it was the fumes which would burn faster than the gas itself. Dropping a lighted cigarette or match into a bucket of gasoline would only put out the flame. Light a match around fumes?—big-badda-boom! Grabbing some dry grass, Chase twisted it into a lighter-knot, then lit it afire. Letting it burn steadily for a few moments, he tossed it onto the gasoline soaked grass and sped around to the back of the cabin with Northman.

It took a few minutes—longer than Chase actually expected—but the explosion was worth the wait. Red, orange and white flames shot skyward, bathing the clearing in heat and light. Startled cries came from inside the shack as the men all tried to exit at once. Cursing and exclamations filled the night. About half those present headed to their vehicles, deciding discretion was the better part of valor. Gasoline fumes tainted the night air. Three men grabbed old blankets from chairs on the porch and started beating at the fire, without much success. Another picked up a bucket, and headed for the nearest water source—the river. It was too little, too late.

The moment everyone cleared out of the shack, Chase bolted through the back door, tearing it from its hinges. A one-roomed shack, there was no missing his quarry. Meredith was tied to an apparatus that looked like something out of Torquemada's dungeon. A BDSM lover's dream, it was made of heavy wood in the shape of a large "X." Thick, leather straps held the wrists and ankles in place. Tilted at an angle, it spread arms and legs wide apart while the person's head was left to dangle forward, backward or to either side. Across Meredith's mouth was piece of duct tape. She was naked, and Chase saw bruises and scratches on her torso.

He was beside her in an instant, fingers working frantically with straps and buckles. She was barely conscious, for which he was glad. Her eyes flew open as he touched her, the terror readily apparent in her eyes. She cowered, fighting him, but she wasn't strong enough to affect an escape. Her hair was matted with something sticky Chase didn't want to think about. Once her ankles were free, he grabbed a jacket from where it lay on the floor, wrapping it around her. She was like a feather when he lifted her.

"You think it's that easy, vampire?"

There was a quality to the voice that was not only menacing but chilling in its madness. Chase whirled around, Meredith cradled in his arms. She whimpered at the sound of the madman's voice. In moments, the back of the shack exploded as Northman flew threw the door. His eyes blazed red. Chase felt icy hot rage inside his chest, and knew that was only partially what the Viking must be feeling. A feral snarl came from Northman, and his fangs snapped into sight.

"Monty." Chase's voice was cold as he addressed the monster who, at the moment, held an unconscious Sookie in front of him. "So, you're the one who's responsible fo—"

"Lookie, lookie, lookie—I've got Miss Sookie." The sing-song voice was high-pitched, like a girl. "Ain't she pretty, vampire?" The hand holding Sookie was filthy, and the smell was disgusting even as far away as Chase stood. "You two better keep back. M'friends are gonna be back inside any time now, and they'd love nothin' better'n t'see a vampire bar-be-que." He laughed, but was careful to not let his eyes leave Chase or Eric. "Too bad I can't fix you like I fixed Reggie, but my powers don't work on Satan Spawn."

Chase watched him. He was a big man. As tall, if not taller, than the Viking. Powerfully built. Not like Northman; heavier, barrel-chested, thick legs. Strong—the insane are always possessed of a manic strength. Brandon knew he would be forced to lay Meredith down in order to fight, but he didn't want to leave her unprotected. Not with Mad Monty present. No telling how many of his friends were still hanging around; at this point, he only heard a few male voices outside. Finally, he began to slowly sidle toward a table to his left. Using Meredith's body to shove the remains of a redneck feast from the top, he gently lay her down. Brandon's eyes never left the big man holding Sookie, not even when the others drifted back inside.

There were five of them, and they were a mean looking lot. Most of them were tall and heavily built, like some kind of perverted wrestling team. Typical of the breed, they sported boots and belts with big buckles. There was a similarity to them; Chase would've bet their family tree had very few branches. Soot blackened some faces, and none of them looked happy to have had their party crashed.

"They done blowed up yer van, Monty." The one in front shoved his way into the shack. When he saw what his friend held, his mouth split into a wide, nearly toothless grin. "Shoo-shit-fire!—you got us anudder one. Hey, boys—lookie what we got here!" And then he saw the vampires. "Holeeee shit!—them's vampires!"

Monty only giggled. "That's right, gentlemen. Didn't I promise you something special? Not only two vampire whores, but two vampires, as well!"

Sheer evil rolled off of Monty like ichor. Not even in his darkest, most beastly days had Chase ever stooped to this depth of depravity or exuded this overpowering of evil. It reached out to engulf everything around him like the tentacles of some heinous monster. His confederates shuffled and hesitated, none of them quite ready to face down two vampires full of righteous indignation. At the moment, Monty was alone—only Chase didn't think he knew that.

Brandon and Northman heard it first: the thin, distant wail of a siren. None of the others even had an inkling.

"If you're wise, you'll leave now." That was the Viking. His voice was colder than ice, dripping with venom. "He will not survive this encounter—nor will any others who remain."

Monty laughed, but his friends weren't quite as confident. The one nearest the door edged backwards to freedom. It didn't take the others long to follow his sterling example. What no one saw was Sookie's hand slowly move. She surreptitiously slid the switchblade out of her pocket, and Chase was glad he kept it well-oiled and easy to open.

"Don't look now, but I think your _friends_ are leaving the party."

Chase sneered at the maniac holding Sookie just as the first sound of a siren reached the clearing. Monty's eyes narrowed as he glared at Brandon. The Viking smirked, taunting their opponent. There was a flash of something bright, then the howl of an animal in pain.

Northman was a blur as he rushed the man. Sookie was apparently conscious enough to get out of the way, leaving the switchblade impaled in Monty's groin. The first scream of pain was nothing compared to the high-pitched wail from Monty when Northman bore him to the floor, the vampire's superior strength easily pinning him down. Unable to escape, Monty's eyes widened in total terror at the sight of fangs hovering bare inches above his throat.

Chase helped Sookie clamber to her feet from where she'd fallen after stabbing Monty. Blood poured from the madman's inner thigh, spurting around the blade. The acrid odor of urine mingled with the tang of blood as Monty lost control of his bodily functions. The murderer was frozen in Northman's grasp, apparently convinced he was about to die.

It took a while for law enforcement to enter the clearing. The narrow track allowed for only one vehicle at a time. The escaping rednecks caused a road block, and the Parish Sheriff and his deputies had to hoof it nearly a mile on foot to reach the shack. By the time they reached the clearing, Sookie had Meredith sitting on a bench outside the cabin. Inside, the deputies found the vampires keeping watch over the body of a man, a switchblade still embedded in his inner thigh.

In one of those infinitely ironic twists of fate where the wheel comes full circle, Monty had bled to death from a severed femoral artery.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES****:** Thanks to everyone who offered an opinion on a continuation or a sequel. The majority of folks want a sequel, so a sequel it will be. I just finished the last chapter, and sent it to my incredible Beta reader. She works fast, so you'll get the final chapter no later than tonight. In the meantime, this chapter kind of wraps up the action. The next chapter kind of sets things up for the sequel. Thanks again to everyone for all the positive comments and reviews.


	16. New Year's Carol

**Disclaimer: **The _Southern Vampire Mysteries_ are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.

* * *

**CAETERA DESUNT**** (The Rest is Wanting)**

**Chapter 16**: **New Year's Carol**

"_They bound Christ's body to a tree, and wounded Him full sore; From every wound the blood ran down, Till Christ could bleed no more. His dying wounds, all rent and tore, were covered with pearly gore. So, God send you all a joyful New Year."_—English Traditional

The penthouse suite at Eldorado Casino & Resort was sheer heaven after Chase spent most of the previous night in the emergency room at Willis-Knighton hospital. Since the doctors wanted to keep Meredith at least until midday, Chase arranged for Matthew to pick her up from the hospital and deliver her to the resort where she was ensconced in a beautiful, four-room suite on the top floor. Grace, too, was brought to the resort. The children under her care were handed over to the expert care of a nanny provided by the resort, so all Grace and Meredith need do was relax.

Matthew remained at their beck and call, reporting both women spent their time being pampered by attendants from the in-house spa: massage, mani- and pedicure, hair. The finest food, new clothes, books, movies—whatever the women wanted, they got. Meredith remained quiet, still slightly under the influence of drugs given to her by the hospital. Grace was her usual reserved self, but the indulgence of such luxury was enough to sway her for at least the day. It was especially nice not to have to worry about expenses—Chase covered the cost of everything.

Chase arrived at the suite shortly after sundown. He was dressed in a black leather suit and a royal blue silk shirt which made his eyes seem to glow. Matthew stood beside him, carrying bags and boxes. Grace was tucking a shawl around Meredith's shoulders. The girl looked much better than she had the night before. There were still telltale signs of her mistreatment, but she could at least offer a smile when he and Matthew entered.

"Good evening." Her voice was a little rough, but if that was the worse damage, then Chase would consider her lucky. "You didn't have to do all this, you know. Grace and I would've been fine at home." She looked to the older black woman who frowned at her. "But, thank you. It's been wonderful being here."

"You're very welcome, Meredith." Chase crossed the room as Grace opened the curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. "Happy New Year to you both, by the way." He sat on the sofa opposite hers, smiling. "Since I doubt you feel up to much celebration, I figured I'd bring the party to you."

"Party?" Her head tilted to one side, and she looked at Grace. The black woman shrugged. "What party?"

"Northman and Sookie will be here shortly, as well as a few of your friends from college. Pam has to oversee _Fangtasia_, but Dr. Gerhardt promised to be here." He turned to study the Shreveport skyline. "Should be quite a view of the fireworks from up here."

"Yes, they should be lovely."

Meredith sounded a little stiff and formal, which wasn't something Chase expected. He'd rather thought they were getting to know one another better, but perhaps she was still getting over her ordeal. Kidnapping and near death were bound to leave some kind of impression on a woman's mind. Perhaps this was Meredith's way of coping. He tried not to scrutinize her too closely, lest he make her feel uncomfortable. In the background, Matthew answered the door, letting room service into the suite. Three or four servers wheeled in carts filled with various party snacks and non-alcoholic drinks. Matthew, in the mean time, delivered a large, flat box to both Grace and Meredith.

Grace eyed Brandon with a hint of suspicion in her expression, but set about opening her box without preamble. "Lordy, lordy—would you look at this!" She held up a lovely black dress with a star burst of rhinestones on the bodice. She sounded positively amazed, and her eyebrows knitted as she looked over at Brandon. "You wouldn't be trying to bribe me, now would you?" she asked.

"No bribe. I just think every woman should have a beautiful dress for New Year's Eve." Chase nodded toward the dress. "Why don't you go try it on? I hope I ordered the right size." He paused. "Oh, and there are more things in the bag."

The older woman smiled, nodding. "Just as long as you know you can't buy me, Chase Brandon." Grace rose from her own seat, heading toward one of the doors in the suite.

Once she left, Chase looked at Meredith. "Why aren't you opening your gift?" he asked, his tone gentle.

She remained silent a moment, then lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. "I was wondering why."

"Why what?"

"Why all _this_?—the suite, the pampering, the gifts. Why are you doing all this?" There was a hint of distress in her voice. "Why come after me, why—why care?" Her voice broke slightly. "I'm pretty much a stranger—"

Chase was taken aback by the questions. "Because—"

He stopped, not sure how to respond. From his centuries of experience, he knew these questions would lead into deep, dangerous waters. They would make him explore motives and examine emotions he'd rather not face at the moment. Better to keep the answer light.

"Because it pleases me to do so," Brandon replied. "You experienced something horrifying, and the least I could do was make New Year's Eve pleasant for you and Grace." He paused, seeking her eyes. "Forgive me if I offended you in some way."

"No, no—I'm not offended. I was just—" It was Meredith's turn to hunt for the right words. "—taken aback by your generosity. You're always being nice to me, and unconditional kindness is rare these days." She pressed her lips together, then added, "I'm sorry I thought you had an ulterior motive."

"Forgiven before it was even thought." Chase poured on the charm, nodding to the box. "Please, make me happy by wearing the dress tonight—even if you toss it in the trash tomorrow."

Meredith nodded, rising slowly. She was, apparently, still in pain. "I'd never do that," she promised, turning toward the opposite doorway than the one Grace entered. "I'll be right back."

Alone, save for Matthew and the servers, Chase studied the view. The twinkling lights of casinos and downtown decorations (which would come down over the next few days) held his attention while he silently congratulated himself on dodging that particular bullet. There would undoubtedly be others over the course of his "courtship" of Meredith, but this was a good step. She owed him her virtue—if not her life—and made him her hero.

_Never a bad thing when a woman owes you a vast debt._

Grace was first to step out of her room. The dress fit her perfectly, suiting her tall, statuesque frame. Chase had never really paid much attention to the black woman, having regulated her to that nebulous position of "servant." It wasn't that he disrespected her, but he was still a product of his noble rank. Still, he'd been in America long enough to know Grace was considered his equal socially. Chase was also smart enough to realize he would have to make the woman trust him if he was ever to reach his goal with Meredith.

"You look very lovely, Grace," Brandon said, rising. "Ready to celebrate the New Year in style."

Grace _was_ attractive in her own way. She carried herself erect, and seemed articulate—when she wasn't frowning at him. The dress slimmed her down a bit, disguising the "middle-aged spread" around her abdomen and hips. With her hair nicely done, and wearing the shoes and jewelry he'd bought her, she was quite a handsome woman.

She was also just as susceptible to flattery as any other female. "Thank you, Mr. Brandon." If her shy smile was anything to judge by, it appeared Chase was winning the battle. "I haven't had anything this lovely in years. Too bad I've got no where to wear it except to this party."

"Perhaps that will change someday soon." Yes, Chase had the seed of an idea sprouting.

Meredith would have taken his breath away if he still breathed. Chase had chosen well for her. That particular shade of azure enhanced the fairness of her skin, and brought the blue of her eyes. A sweetheart neckline showed off her long neck, making Brandon long to stroke her throat with his fingers—or fangs, either would do. Lace softened the shape of the bodice, and formed long sleeves which hid her bruised arms. The floor-length skirt was form-fitting to her hips, then fell to the floor in graceful folds. She really needed no other adornment, but Chase had bought her small sapphire earrings and a tear-drop shaped pendant that hung from a platinum chain. She wore her hair loose, silky stands framing her face.

"You look—" (Delicious?) "—amazing."

Chase studied Meredith for several minutes before he turned away. He didn't dare let her see the sheer want in his expression lest he scare her away. He would have to tread carefully; she was still spooked after her ordeal, and Brandon had to regain ground he'd lost. Thankfully, those barbarians hadn't brought their horrifying intentions to fruition, but no telling what she'd been through for the time Monty had her at his mercy. She might even need counseling after that experience.

"Thank you." Her smile was shy, and she blushed. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever owned."

Fortunately, they were all spared further awkward conversation by the timly arrival of Northman and Sookie. Both were dressed to the nines, as the saying goes, with Northman in a stylish black jacket, pants and a red silk, Mandarin collared shirt. Sookie's halter dress was the exact same shade of red, which flattered her figure. She wore glistening diamonds and rubies in her ears, and a matching tennis bracelet on her wrist. At least the couple weren't arguing, although there was a faint hint of tension between them. Chase tried not to be curious, but he couldn't help himself. He and Sookie both undoubtedly faced some form of punishment for disobeying the Sheriff of Area Five. Yet, when asking, they'd both been told not to worry about it until _after_ the first.

The Stackhouse girl went first to Meredith, giving her a gentle hug. Northman, however, remained standing beside Chase. Both men watched the women, then stepped away to admire the view from the huge window—or, at least seem like it.

"There are loose ends." Chase's voice was soft so the women wouldn't hear. "Did the police back off after your attorney got through with them?"

"They did, though Sookie has to see Detective Lee tomorrow. He didn't really give her a hard time. Things were pretty self-evident, and it _was_ self-defense."

"That it was," Chase agreed. Things happened fast after the Bossier Parish Sheriff arrived and took confessions from the rednecks. After making statements, Sookie, Eric and Chase were allowed to accompany Meredith in the ambulance to the hospital. Fortunately, she wouldn't have to undergo questioning by police for a few days. Not until she was deemed of suitable mental stability, at least. Chase had already retained Douglas Murrell to deal with any legal aspects of the case. He wanted Meredith protected from _any _repercussions.

"We still don't know what the 'vampire treasure' is."

"No, we don't. Nor do we know where Menéndez is." Northman paused a moment. "Bill didn't find any sign of him purchasing a way out of town, which means he's either hiding out or he found some other kind of transport."

"Well, there was the Anubis Airlines van at the shack."

Northman shook his head. "He's legit. Lives in Benton, works for Anubis—though probably not for long after his part in last night's debacle."

The arrival of other guests prevented further conversation regarding the previous night. A few of Meredith's fellow students—all hunted up by Matthew during the day—showed up to party like there was no tomorrow. (At least they were respectful to the vampires, and there were no pissing in the punch bowl antics.) Helga arrived with Ingrid and another instructor at the college, Dr. Antony Dicocco of the Black History Department. Of an age with Grace, the two seemed to hit it off well.

Meredith seemed happy enough surrounded by friends. Chase watched her laugh at funny stories and generally enjoy herself. There were only a couple of times he caught her staring off into mid-air, as if she were distancing herself from every thing and everyone. But, moments later, she'd be herself again: one part happy, one part under the influence of pain killers, and two parts shy. Her friends avoided asking questions about her ordeal, though Chase could see curiosity written on each face.

Brandon and the Viking were objects of conjecture on the part of at least half the girls, but Sookie made it plain Eric was off limits. Unfortunately, Chase and Meredith had no such relationship, and he was beset by flirtatious girls throughout the evening. He smiled and laughed, but slipped through their fingers like a greased eel.

The giant, flat-screened TV was turned on about a quarter to eleven so everyone could see the Ball in Times Square drop. They all counted down from ten as the East Coast rang in the New Year. Central Time Zone still had another hour to go, and some of Meredith's friends sadly said they had other places to be for midnight. She bid them goodnight with a smile and a hug, and seemed genuinely pleased to have seen them. By midnight in Shreveport, there were only eight people left in the suite: Helga and Ingrid, Eric and Sookie, Grace and Antony, Chase and Meredith. Plus Matthew, but Chase's manservant had already been dismissed to enjoy his own New Year's Eve.

The first of the fireworks drew everyone to the window. It was an incredible display, lasting an entire 30-minutes from start to finish. The finale was spectacular; the entire sky was lit up with sparkling waterfalls of fire. Star bursts, wheels, fountains, fans—all types of the most popular pyrotechnics available. Sponsored by Shreveport and Bossier City, the display was witnessed by thousands of people on the streets and rooftops, in upper story apartments and hotel rooms, even from boats in the river. It might not have been Times Square, but it was beautiful.

Just before the fireworks signified the New Year, Chase maneuvered himself next to Meredith. When it came time for the traditional hug and kiss, it was to her he turned, whispering "Happy New Year" in her ear as he took her into his arms. The sheer rush of wanting nearly overwhelmed him, but he restrained himself, giving her a chaste kiss on the lips instead of a passionate liplock like Sookie and Eric. Meredith at first stiffened when Chase embraced her, but seemed to relax only seconds later. She returned his New Year's greeting, smiling as she left his arms to similarly hug Sookie, then Northman, then all the others.

As the strains of _Auld Lang Syne_ faded from the closed circuit TV broadcast live from the Eldorado's premier show lounge, Helga lifted her glass of True Blood. "Meredith!—dear one, sing the New Year's Carol."

Chase saw Meredith blush as Ingrid added her voice to the request. "I don't have my lute." It was easy to tell who'd heard her sing before; they quickly informed her she didn't need the lute, and wouldn't accept that as an excuse. Finally, reluctantly, Meredith agreed. Her voice was as lovely as every other time Chase had heard her sing, albeit slightly huskier. The carol he recognized from England. Though not nearly as old as himself, it brought back memories of nearly 500 such nights as this: some spent as a human, but many, many more spent as he was now. He watched Meredith with eyes full of need.

Chase abruptly realized she was part of both his worlds, the ancient and the modern. She knew his past _and_ his present. It suddenly occurred to him, he wanted her to see his future, as well. Like a few others in his life, he could nurture her intellect, and draw her slowly but surely into his world. He might even consider opening his home to parties, smiling at the thought of Meredith acting as mistress of his house. With her knowledge of history, she'd be the perfect addition to his—

Applause interrupted his thoughts. Chase saw Sookie watching him, and moved over to her. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked her.

"I don't know."

At least the answer was honest. "Not having a good time?" Chase frowned.

"It's not that." She met his gaze. "I was just thinking what I'd hear if I could read your mind."

The statement completely caught Chase off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure, but I've got a feeling you need to cash a reality check." Sookie paused, then added, "She isn't a possession, she's a human being. She has free will."

Chase creased his brows, not entirely happy with this conversation. "She needs—"

"—to make up her own mind. Don't confuse her the way—"

Again Sookie stopped before she finished her sentence, but Chase had an inkling of what she was going to say. "I am not Northman."

"No, you're not, but you will be if you're not careful. Give her the freedom of choice neither Bill nor Eric ever gave me."

Sookie turned away, leaving Chase alone with his thoughts. He heard her laughing with Eric moments later. He watched the Sheriff with his bonded for a few minutes, then looked for Meredith. She was standing near the window, watching the city below. The sight of her brought to life something inside Chase he thought had died many centuries past. Brandon considered many things from many different angles in only a few seconds, at last coming to one conclusion: he _would_ have her.

With her back turned, Chase knew she hadn't seen his features harden, or his eyes fill with calculation. Outside the window, New Year's Day would soon dawn. Inside, there were still loose ends to tie up, and questions to be answered. Unfortunately, neither would happen overnight.

Chase cast his mind back to the last new year's celebration before Henry set aside Catherine for the Boleyn witch. Everyone knew he wanted Anne, but knew better than to put voice to their thoughts. Even Chase was cautious, keeping his opinion to himself. He remembered one of the church legates remarked upon the king's desires, and how it seemed to sum up everything so perfectly.

_Caetera desunt—the rest is wanting. . . ._

_-fin-

* * *

_

**AUTHOR'S NOTES****:** There it is, folks. This part of Chase Brandon's story is told. There will be a sequel. Thank you all for the reviews and encouragement. I could not have done it without all of your kind words.


End file.
